


which the leopards reject

by suleskerry (hypocorism)



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types, Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, La Belle et la Bête | Beauty and the Beast (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Beauty and the Beast Elements, F/F, Fairy Tale Retellings, Lesbian loneliness tm, Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 39,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23192578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypocorism/pseuds/suleskerry
Summary: sometimes, into the most cramped and narrow passages of your soul, love bursts
Relationships: OFC/OFC, Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	1. Act One

When you look down, safe for the moment, from the uppermost balcony of the Château d’Argent, you can see almost directly below you the vastness of the sea. It is a view that inspires madness, some say, for how can you desire anything but to jump? How can you remember that you cannot fly, that you are not as endless as water, when it is all laid out below you, like something you have a chance to possess? Or, not this exactly. Like something you desire to possess. Like something you think for a moment you can possess, but the moment is simply a lie to yourself. A trap.

It was folly, to build a house in such a place, cupped in the outstretched palm of the cliffs. But then, folly has long been a virtue of this particular family. Folly, and a certain avaricious bent.

One can excuse such excesses of character, almost, from a distance, with the house lit up and gleaming like a jewel clenched in a fist of rock. From there, down by the low-tide shoreline in the shadow of the cliffs, with the fullness of the moon hanging above it, the house is serene and untouchable. The salt-limned wood of the dock creaks, rocked gently by the sea. Even the start of the treacherous and uneven path up to the house is softened by the darkness, the jut of the rock hiding the light of the moon from the waves.

Moving closer, as always, reveals the flaws in this perfection. The Château d’Argent is old, and the wind whips through the crenellations and passages of the top with biting speed. The stone is rough, and there is a certain wildness to the gardens that not even the most highly paid professionals can quite eradicate.

Although it is late, the enormous stained glass windows spill light carelessly into the night. Music and laughter drift out the open French doors onto the terrace and beyond, into the garden. The rose brambles creep and cling to the towering lattices, thick-scented red heads drooping and black in the coolness of the night. Something twists among them, sharp and glinting, just for a moment, like a piece of mirror, then vanishing.

A figure emerges from the darkness, slowly and then all at once, small at first, but rippling and growing in the shadow of the house. Its robes gain elaborate embroidery and several glinting gems, the figure growing taller and more stern.

It raises the thick, silver head of its cane and raps sharply on the door.

Although the wait for a response is long, the figure demonstrates no impatience. It simply stands, tall and unbending, until the door finally swings silently open.

“Come for the ball?” a voice drawls. In contrast to the stranger standing on the threshold, the woman who has opened the door lazes insouciantly against the open frame. She’s dressed expensively but not at all neatly, and the bottom hem of her gown is ripped and muddied.

“Isabeau d’Argent?” The figure asks. In the light streaming from the open door, her features resolve into a high, heavy brow, a solid square jaw, and piercing deep-set eyes.

“Who’s asking?” Isabeau asks. She doesn’t bother to straighten her posture. The hand on her wine glass is the only thing that betrays her impatience, tapping and swirling over the brim.

“A distant relation of yours,” the figure says impassively. Isabeau snorts, turning her face back into the house and letting the tumble of her carelessly pinned up thick dark hair swing between her and the visitor.

“You should know better than to come to me, then.”

“I require shelter for the night,” the figure demands imperiously. Isabeau goes from lounging to fierce and upright in an instant.

“Inquire elsewhere,” she snaps, attempting to swing the heavy oak door shut. The silver head of the cane, a snarling wolf, blocks the door.

“You cannot shut me out,” the figure taunts.

“Watch me,” Isabeau says, through gritted teeth. “I need nothing from any so-called relatives of mine.” She attempts to shut the door again, nearly succeeding this time. Just as the shaft of light pouring from inside is pared down to barely an inch, though, something changes. The door blows back and open, as silently and lightly as a feather. The light from inside the house fades away, the sound dropping off, and the two figures squared off across the threshold are bathed in cold, unrelenting moonlight.

“Think carefully before you speak, young one.” The figure looks harsher and older in the moonlight, features gaining an even haughtier cast. Isabeau tries to jerk back, to retreat into the house, but some force holds her firmly in place. She clenches her jaw, forcing herself to look up into the increasingly familiar face.

“What do you want,” she hisses. The figure does not respond immediately, staring into Isabeau’s face thoughtfully for a moment.

“In exchange for shelter,” it says, words slow and measured, “I offer you this rose.”

Isabeau looks at the rose, lush and red and full, and curls her lip.

“I have ample roses,” she says. “Get out of my sight.” She tries to close the door once more, hand scrambling behind her, but is stopped as agonizing pain bursts out along every nerve in her body. Distantly, she hears her wine glass shatter against the tile of the entryway as her body is jolted and lifted up into the now-burning white moonlight. Her eyes are streaming too badly to see anything but blurry shapes, but she hears the harsh cold voice of the enchantress clearly.

“You have become a petulant child too long indulged by life.” The words boom in Isabeau’s ears, sharp and cutting even as the moonlight sears and warps her body. “There is nothing in your heart but selfishness and trivial jealousies.”

Isabeau pries her jaw open and tries to speak, to parry the words, but fangs burst from her gums and her mouth fills with blood.

“You must learn to open your heart to others, or remain cut off from love forever.”

When the light fades, the voice is gone, and Isabeau lies in a heap on the doorway.

—-

Someone once told Jeanne Vincent that she looks like the land after a famine: all hard rawboned lines. It wasn’t a particularly kind comment, but it was a true one, and Jeanne holds truth as valuable in a way she doesn’t flattery.

It’s strange, perhaps, that a girl who looks like famine can bring such abundance. And yet, undeniably she does. As difficult and trying coaxing the vegetables and the tiny grove of trees into growth and abundance is, it is something Jeanne craves when she is away from it. Something that whispers perpetually to her as she meanders through town or walks down along the shoreline. The strange alchemy of her hands and the sun and the rain creating life, over and over again, draws her in a way few other things do. It is not easy, or always pleasant, here in the garden, but it is hers.

Jeanne pushes her rough, calloused hands into the dirt for the enjoyment of it, just for a moment. The weight of the earth is in her bones and the dirt under her fingernails grounds her.

“Jeanne,” her father calls from the house, his voice carrying easily through the half-open door. Jeanne sighs, pulling her hands gently free from the soil of the garden, and drags herself unwillingly back towards the house.

“Coming,” she calls back. Her father will be irritated by the delay in which she washes her hands and changes her apron, but he’ll be angrier still if she brings in the evidence of the outdoors on her hands and clothes.

Her father is seated in his workshop, the largest and sunniest room in the house. The expensive glass windows are firmly closed, as usual, and he is perched behind his table of instruments and various cogs with reading glasses sliding down toward the end of his nose. The picture of studied abstraction might succeed in charming Jeanne, were she and her father fundamentally different than they are. As it is, the delay between her entry and his shift of attention just irritates her.

She stands quietly, watching the flit and bustle of birds out the window over his shoulder. One has just landed neatly on a tree branch when her father clears his throat and draws her attention.

“I need some things from town,” he says imperiously, as if this isn’t the ordinary reason he calls her into his workshop.

“Of course,” Jeanne says, taking the piece of neatly written scrap paper from his outstretched hand. He resumes his work, which Jeanne takes as the dismissal it is and starts to leave.

“And don’t dawdle,” he adds, just as she reaches the edge of the room.

“I won’t,” Jeanne says placidly. She closes the study door.

Jeanne glances briefly into the mirror in the hall, checking for any stray smudges of dirt, before picking up her basket. She hesitates near the front of the house for a moment before darting quickly to her small shelf of books and slipping one of them safely under the round red apples. Even if she doesn’t have time to read while she’s in town, knowing the possibility of escape is tucked among her daily errands is comforting.

Jeanne shuts the door firmly behind herself, steps growing lighter as she gains some distance from the house. The early autumn air is sweet and light against her skin, and she lifts her face and closes her eyes to take in the feel of the sun and the shiver of the wind. Her feet know this path so well that she doesn’t need to look where she’s going. The constant buzzing of her thoughts always quiets a little when she’s outside, even when she knows that she’ll shortly be in town.

“Hello, Jeanne,” the booming voice of the baker breaks into her thoughts.

“Oh,” she says, blinking a little. “Hello, M. Fournier.”

“Here for your usual order?” he asks, with familiar robust kindness.

“Yes, please.” Jeanne fumbles in her apron pocket for a handful of coins and passes them over. She’s early enough this morning that the loaves have just come out of the oven, and the baker wraps the warm bread in cloth for her to make it easier to carry. She slides the long loaf into her basket and hands the baker an apple in return.

“Thank you, dear,” the older man says kindly. “Don’t dawdle too much on your errands, now.”

“I won’t,” Jeanne promises, waving goodbye as she leaves the bakery.

Her next stop is farther into town, and she passes several people who wave and smile at her. The townspeople here are friendly enough, though Jeanne knows she and her father make up a fair amount of their gossip. She hears the barely concealed whispers about their oddness: the reclusiveness of her father, her own tendency to avoid protracted conversations and wander about the countryside half-reading and half-meandering. Still, there’s no denying that her produce is excellent and that she’s polite and prompt in her business transactions. For the most part, people leave her alone, smiling indulgently at her and then shaking their heads after she’s passed by.

After carefully nestling eggs into her basket and parting with another apple and a handful of radishes, Jeanne pauses. She still has several stops, but she’s right next to the book-sellers and can’t resist the temptation to go in. Occasionally, if the shop isn’t too busy, he’ll let her borrow a book for a few days in exchange for whatever fruit she has on hand.

The shopkeeper smiles at her as she comes in, tucking a scrap of fabric into his book to save his place.

“I wondered if I’d see you today, Jeanne,” he says.

“Oh?” Jeanne glances hopefully at the small stack of books under the carefully printed ‘New Arrivals’ sign.

“I’ve got one I think you’ll enjoy,” he says. Jeanne holds out an arm to steady him as he stands from his chair, back creaking in protest at the movement.

“Bad day, M. Comtois?” she asks. He waves off the sympathy.

“When you get as old as I am, even the bad days have their charm.” He slides a book carefully from the stack, handing it to her with a twinkling smile. Jeanne smiles back, tucking the book under one arm.

“Apples, or turnips?” she asks.

“Hmm. Apple,” Comtois says. She hands him the ripest, largest one, and he smiles at her again. “Let me know what you think of the book. I was quite surprised by the ending of one tale, I must say.”

“I will,” Jeanne promises, exiting the shop with a wave.

She quickens her step, rushing through the rest of her errands with a minimum of fuss. Since her father never goes into town, he doesn’t have much idea of how long this outing should take. If she hurries, she can have almost a half-hour of reading at the fountain in the centre of town before the clock strikes and reminds her to return home to start preparing the midday meal.

Jeanne eagerly opens her new book, skimming a hand almost absentmindedly along the raised texture of the title and the little bumps of the spine. She tumbles head-first into the story, swept away to an isolated castle on a hill. The chatter and bustle of the marketplace and the burbling of the fountain behind her fade entirely. Instead, she hears the ominous rumble of thunder over the previously peaceful glade, and watches lighting outline the castle in sharp-crackling bursts.

Unfortunately, her escape is short-lived today. Most of the townspeople are friendly but distant, with two exceptions. One is M. Comtois, who listens to Jeanne’ rambling about books she enjoys and is a pleasant source of calm among the bustle of town. The other exception is far less agreeable.

Antoine Mercier is a tall landowner who favors plain, if expensive, clothing and sour expressions. He acts as if he’s a good deal above most of the town folk, which Jeanne supposes he technically is. He’s certainly richer than anyone else, and money runs a long race where charm and beauty fall short.

She’s never precisely sure where his interest in her stems from. It certainly isn’t her distinct lack of beauty. There are prettier and more pleasant girls in town, many of them all too eager to trade the dubious freedom of remaining unmarried for the certainty of a husband with a good income, however unpleasant he himself might be. In Jeanne’s experience, men prefer their wives to be younger, prettier, and much less intelligent than themselves. Every other man in town has certainly given her a wide enough berth.

Undeniably interested he seems to be, however, and Jeanne endures his interruptions and attentions with the same sort of tired patience she gives her father.

“Reading again?” Mercier drawls, plucking the book from her hands and glancing disinterestedly at the cover.

“Yes,” Jeanne says, standing and brushing off her dress. “I’ve borrowed it from M. Comtois.” She hopes this will encourage him to treat the book a little more carefully than he has some of her own in the past. He sneers and hands it back to her, which she supposes is better than dropping it.

“That old man has no head for business. What kind of bookseller lets potential customers wander off with the merchandise.”

Jeanne smiles slightly. “Are you implying I’m untrustworthy?” she asks, starting to walk back down the path home.

“Of course not,” Mercier says, with hasty condescension. “I have plenty of books in my library and you are welcome to borrow them at any time you choose.”

He looks quite pleased with himself at this neat maneuver, and Jeanne forces a smile. Perhaps it’s simply that the two of them are of an age and he lacks the patience for a younger or more optimistic woman.

“How kind,” Jeanne demurs. She wonders if she could quicken her pace without seeming rude, but gives the idea up with an internal sigh.

“I hope your father is well,” Mercier continues stiffly.

“He is as ever,” Jeanne says. They are approaching the gate which marks the edge of her father’s land and she sees Mercier turn to go with a rush of relief.

“I will not trespass upon his hospitality,” Mercier says, bowing briefly to her. Jeanne, who thanks the benevolent heavens daily that her father and Mercier are intractably at odds, gives him a genuine smile as she shuts the gate.

“I’ll see you in town, monsieur.”

—-

Jeanne is summoned back to her father’s workroom almost as soon as she steps into the house. This surprises her a little, as generally all he’s interested in getting from her in the afternoons is lunch. The reason for the summons soon becomes clear, though.

The workroom is never precisely messy, but it’s closer to that state now than Jeanne has ever seen it before. The brightly colored liquids in differently shaped glass phials she has grown used to seeing over the past several months are scattered haphazardly around the desk. There are scraps of wood and curious knots of metal everywhere, and Jeanne nearly steps on a curved glass lens coming into the room.

“I’ve done it,” her father says proudly. “And just in time, too.”

“Done what?” Jeanne asks, neatening a stack of books that is close to tipping over. Her father bats her hands away impatiently.

“Completed my invention, of course!”

Jeanne feels her pulse leap in excitement, but keeps her face carefully blank.

“Are you going to the fair after all, then?”

“I never would have missed it,” her father says. Jeanne tactfully does not bring up his diatribe from the day before about how all the attendees would surely be talentless hacks and the prize hardly worth attaining. It seems that a reward accrues value when one has a chance of gaining it.

“I’m sure it will be very interesting.”

“Make sure my things are ready for a day’s journey,” he says, waving at her dismissively. A response does not appear to be required, so Jeanne leaves him to it.

She feels a quiet hum of anticipation as she packs clothes and some sandwiches for her father, as she brushes and saddles their horse, Philippe, as she neatens the kitchen. With her father gone for an entire day, perhaps even two, she can read her new book uninterrupted. She can avoid town, and stares, and Mercier, and shut herself up in her room like she so frequently wishes she could do. She can spend the evening outside in her garden, and walk about the house in her comfortable outdoor clothes.

This anticipation keeps her warm as she sees her father off in the late afternoon. She lets Philippe’s hoofbeats fade into the distance, closes her eyes, and tips her head back. The smell of decaying leaves, of sun-warmed dirt and animal sweat wash over her, all underlaid by the sweetness of the apple tree at her back. Freedom, even if only for a day, needs to be savoured.

—-

Arsène Vincent holds his lantern aloft, shining the light over the cryptic signpost in front of him.

“That can’t be right,” he mutters to himself. Philippe, unhappy with the increasingly dark sky overhead, whinnies and shakes his head. He starts to pull to the left, but Arsène yanks on his reigns impatiently. “Silly horse. The shortcut is this way,” he insists. He tries to guide Philippe over to the path on the right, but Philippe protests again, tossing his head. After one more solid tug on his reins, he gives in to the prompting of his rider with another noise of displeasure. The moon overhead provides very little light to go by, especially when thick ominous clouds cover it for minutes at a time.

“I don’t recall this ride taking so long last time,” Arsène grumbles. “We must have made a wrong turn.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when the path in front of them is suddenly illuminated as the clouds above are blown away from the moon.

“This is certainly wrong,” Arsène tuts. “Useless horse. Let’s go back to the crossroads.” The horse turns abruptly, much to his rider’s surprise, and quickly increases his speed as they hurry back the way they came.

“Slow down, you silly horse,” Arsène complains, tugging ineffectually on the reins. Instead of slowing, Philippe tries to increase his speed even further, nearly colliding with a tree around a sharp bend in the path. He spooks and rears, unseating his already unsteady rider completely.

“Philippe, no!” Arsène calls after the retreating horse. To his horror, he sees three wolves appear. They’re lean and fast, but Philippe appears to be outpacing them. Unfortunately for Arsène, he is much slower than a horse and there are more wolves emerging from the trees. He panics, bolting down the path after the horse and making it almost back to the crossroad before stumbling and crashing into the brush. He scrambles quickly to his feet, ignoring the stinging of his scraped palms and knees, but is disoriented by the fall and looks around to relocate the path. Instead, with a surge of hope, he sees an ornate black gate a few dozen yards away.

He pelts straight at the gate, afraid to look behind him to see how close the wolves have gotten. Arsène runs full force into the gate, gasping as the wind is knocked out of him.

“Help! Let me in!” he calls, shaking the iron violently. To his astonishment, the gate makes a clicking sound and swings inward. He nearly topples over, but manages to slip through the gap and slam the gate shut again. He backs up, shivering with horrified fear as he sees the wolves barely two feet away, snarling and snapping. They don’t seem eager to challenge the gate, though, and slink back into the forest with a final round of threatening growls.

As Arsène walks down the smooth wide drive, he marvels at the enormous castle looming in the distance. Although the grounds are spacious, he is surprised he wasn’t able to see the spires from the path.

The vast oak doors and the sheer drop to the coast behind the castle are intimidating, but it’s starting to rain and he has no way of getting home. Arsène raises a hand to knock on the door. Much like the gate, though, it swings open unexpectedly. There is no one visible in the empty foyer, so he walks slowly and quietly toward the massive staircase in the back of the hall.

—-

Jeanne looks up at the sky, closing her eyes so the rain doesn’t fall into them. It’s late and she should probably be inside, especially since she’s currently being rained on, but she’s hesitant to leave the sanctuary of her garden. She’s spent the entire day outside, reading in the morning and then working in the garden all afternoon. There isn’t really much work to be done with winter approaching and the harvest nearly finished, but bustling about with weeding and neatening and repairing a rotten plank in the fence keeps her busy enough. She even sat outside to watch the sunset, dragging out the sweetness of her freedom as long as possible.

The rain feels good against her skin, cool but not cold. It soaks into her hair, making it pull and drag against its pins. She tugs them free one by one, slipping them into her apron pocket for safekeeping. Lightning streaks across the sky, painting the familiar lines of her garden in strange monochrome.

The sight of new growth and seeped-out color mapped over her daily view brings her out of herself enough that she’s jolted back to reality.

“Mooning away again,” she mutters to herself, sighing and turning back to the house. Her toes squash pleasantly in the mud, and she feels the happy zing of connection she always gets in close contact with the earth.

The wooden floors of the house are far less pleasant to walk on, especially with her feet scraped clean from the scratchy straw mat in the entryway. She doesn’t bother to walk far, just strips her wet clothes off by the door and hangs them up to dry. Her hair is dripping uncomfortably down her back, so she pulls it away from her body and wrings it out. Even though she’s the one who will have to clean up the floors, she gains an odd sense of satisfaction from watching the water splash over them and muddy the remnants of dirt left behind.

In the back of her mind, she plans to go get in dry clothes and settle down to sleep, but she finds herself wandering over to the window and pulling back the curtains. She watches the rain pour down into her garden, soaking the earth, nourishing the plants. Almost unconsciously, she presses a palm against the cold glass and lets her face fall forward, closing her eyes and feeling the slight vibration of the glass in the wind.

—-

Arsène wakes with the sun the next morning, rested and refreshed in spite of his frightening encounter with the wolves.

“Finding this castle was a real stroke of luck,” he muses. The clothes he discarded on the chair the night before have been dried and pressed, presumably by the same invisible servants who stoked the fire and filled the empty table with food when he sat down. Arsène stretches and yawns, walking down the corridor toward where he recalls finding the cavernous entry chamber. The thick front doors creak open as he reaches them, and he smiles a little. If only whichever fairy has enchanted this castle could do the same for his home! Then he could really get somewhere with his work.

As Arsène strides out into the garden, something snags in the corner of his vision.

Arsène turns his head slowly, caught in the still magic of this strange castle, to look more directly. To his surprise, a single rose blooms among the otherwise bare garden. There are two or three more, past blown and losing their petals, but this rose is perfect and looks as if it has just opened. He slips a knife from his pocket, cutting down the tips of the thorns and then carefully removing the rose itself.

He nearly cuts his thumb open in surprise as a massive shadow falls over him, blotting out the weak morning sun. He turns slowly, heart beating in his throat.

An enormous beast is striding toward him. Arsène tries to run, but he barely takes two steps before the thing has him backed up against the trellis and cornered. He closes his eyes, flinging his hands up to cover his face instinctively. He feels the beast’s hot breath on his face and braces himself for death, but strangely nothing happens for a moment. He opens his eyes slowly, lowering his hands, flinching when he sees the monstrous face only a few feet from his own.

The thing is strange, to say the least. When he first saw it coming towards him, it was running on all fours. Now, though, it stands on its hind legs like a massive, shaggy bear. It also seems to be draped in some sort of garment: a cloak, perhaps?

“Good dog,” Arsène tries tentatively, reaching out. The beast snarls at him and plucks the rose violently from his outstretched hand.

“I’m not a dog, you fool,” it snaps at him. Arsène starts, too surprised by the fact that this thing can speak to reply. “Was my hospitality not enough for you? Must you take the last of my roses as well?”

“I...I didn’t know!” he replies. “I didn’t know anyone lived here!”

“Where did you think the tables of food came from? Or the fire?” the beast asks. If it weren’t a soulless monster incapable of such things, Arsène would think he detected sarcasm in its tone.

“Magic?” he says weakly. The beast snorts.

“Because you have taken what was not yours, you or one of your bloodline must pay the cost.”

“What cost?” Arsène leans back against the trellis, trembling slightly. The beast gives a wide, toothy smile.

—-

Jeanne tucks her book under her arm, still half-caught in the world of the novel and walking to the door mostly by instinct. It’s a bit early for her father to be back, but perhaps he forgot his latch-key and needs to be let in. She’s not paying enough attention to reality to question who else it might be, so it comes as a particularly nasty shock when she opens the door to see Antoine Mercier.

“Oh,” she says, before recalling herself enough to conceal her surprised dismay. “What a lovely surprise.”

“Jeanne,” Mercier says, smiling at her condescendingly. Jeanne’s stomach sinks into roughly the vicinity of her toes. “I know you’ve been expecting me.”

“Not particularly,” Jeanne tries hopefully, but she only gets a condescending laugh as acknowledgement of the feeble dodge.

“Don’t be so modest,” he says, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs for her with a flourish. Jeanne sits reluctantly, setting her book on the table between them. He doesn’t look down, taking the other chair and then staring uncomfortably into her eyes.

“Can I help you with anything?” Jeanne asks, and then immediately regrets it when she sees the look of smug pride cross his face again.

“You know,” he muses. “My house has felt rather empty, of late.” Jeanne is traitorously deserted by the one tiny shred of hope she has managed to cling to that this is merely a social call.

“Perhaps a new cook might be in order.”

He laughs. “I think I know what it is that I need. There’s nothing like a woman to brighten up a place.”

He pauses, as if expecting her to jump in. Jeanne, unable to think of anything other than ‘the only way I’ll be brightening your home is if I set it on fire,’ just nods as if he’s said something wise instead of incredibly condescending. Mercier clears his throat and dives back in.

“You know I keep a large establishment. There aren’t many women around here capable of managing something like that. And, well,” he looks at her, “you aren’t precisely young.”

Rather than being insulted, this last remark makes Jeanne feel rather hopeful.

“Oh, yes,” she says brightly. “I’m terribly set in my ways.”

Mercier waves his hand.

“Keeping house for one man is much like keeping house for another,” he remarks.

 _That’s precisely what I’m afraid of_ , Jeanne thinks.

“Listen, Jeanne,” he says. “Don’t you think it’s time we cease dancing around each other and settle down?”

“Ah,” Jeanne says, stalling for time. “Dancing?” He frowns at her blankly, and she gives up on diversion. “Well. I’m terribly flattered.” He nods at her encouragingly, the same condescending smile playing about his lips. “But I’m afraid I simply couldn’t marry without my father’s consent.”

His face grows stormy.

“You don’t need him any more,” he says, rather dramatically in Jeanne’s opinion. “I can provide for you, with or without his approval.”

“You’re so kind,” Jeanne says, pushing back from the table. Mercier also leaps to his feet. He starts toward her, but Jeanne dodges nimbly around him and walks briskly down the hall to the door.

“So you’ll marry me?” he persists. Jeanne clenches her jaw, then forces a pleasant smile onto her face as she opens the door and turns toward him.

“I’m afraid I’m late for beginning the farm cho-” Mercier grabs for her hand, clasping it between his clammy palms. “Really,” Jeanne says impatiently. “This is very improper.”

This, at least, seems to cow him where disinterest or coldness had failed to make any kind of impression.

“I will return when your father is at home,” he says determinedly.

“If you wish,” Jeanne says, closing the door in his face. She sighs and leans back against it. Mercier and her father have never gotten along, but she lives in perpetual fear that the enticement of a rich son-in-law will outpace the wounded pride of the scorned inventor. She has very little choice in her life, but at least here she has her garden and is left mostly to her own devices.

Jeanne sighs and straightens. She goes back to the kitchen to retrieve her book, planning on staying inside until she’s absolutely certain Mercier is gone, but rapid hoofbeats approaching the house startle her into opening the door.

“Philippe?” Jeanne asks, wonderingly. She goes down to meet the horse, who bucks once but then calms as she comes closer. He’s clearly been running, and is tired and frightened. She grabs hold of his reigns and starts walking him around the yard toward the stable, speaking soothingly to him as she does so. Once he’s settled in the stable with food and water, though, she starts to worry. Did her father fall? Is he injured somewhere along the path? She’s not entirely certain where to go to look for him. She thinks he was riding east, but although she has heard countless details of his invention and his process and his potential competition, the inn he planned to stay at or even the city he was going to failed to merit a mention.

Jeanne walks down to the gate, twisting her hands anxiously in her apron.

“Jeanne,” a hoarse voice says from behind her. She starts violently, whirling around to see her father. She rushes toward him as he starts to collapse, propping his arm around her shoulder. He’s pale and shaking, but resists when she tries to pull him back into the house. “No. I must return,” he says.

“Of course,” Jeanne soothes, having no idea what he’s talking about or how he got through the gate without her seeing. “Let’s just go inside and sit-”

“No,” he says, his voice a little stronger. “No. I’ve only come back to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?” Jeanne asks. “What are you saying? What’s happened?”

“I must spend the rest of my days as a prisoner,” he says dramatically, leaning against the fence. Jeanne pushes down a surge of irritation at his characteristic lack of proper explanation.

“A prisoner?” she prompts. He looks at her, finally, and starts rambling about a fairy castle, a rose, a hideous beast, a bargain.

“Wait,” Jeanne frowns. “An enchanted garden?”

“Aren’t you listening to me! I have sworn to return to the castle as a prisoner! If I don’t my life is forfeit!”

“I’m listening,” Jeanne soothes. “Let’s go sit down-”

“No,” her father shakes his head, pulling a rose from the pocket inside his jacket. “Goodbye, Jeanne.” He steps away from her, starting to release the rose, but Jeanne surges forward and grabs his hand just as the flower falls to the ground.

—-

Jeanne opens her eyes. The shift was so rapid, they haven’t even had time to adjust to the darkness. Between one blink and the next, she has moved from one garden to another. At her elbow, her father is ranting and scolding, but Jeanne is too busy looking around in interest to heed him.

“Well well well,” a dry voice says. “Two for the price of one.” Jeanne turns from her contemplation of the bare garden and sees the legendary Isabeau d’Argent for the first time.

‘The beast,’ is rather objectively frightening, she supposes. She’s certainly enormous, towering over Arsène by a good bit and Jeanne by nearly a meter.

“You can’t have her!” her father says at her elbow. “You agreed that I would be your prisoner!”

“Yes, well, that’s before the both of you trampled all over my garden,” Isabeau grumbles, folding her arms. Jeanne can’t help but notice the rather sharp claws at the end of them.

“I’ll come in my father’s place,” Jeanne says firmly. This provokes another torrent of refusals from Arsène, but she ignores him in favor of watching Isabeau’s reaction.

“What a touching show of filial piety,” Isabeau says, rather sarcastically in Jeanne’s opinion. Jeanne isn’t particularly bothered. She’s much more interested in the enchanted castle and the legend surrounding it than she is in Isabeau’s temperament or what view she chooses to take of Jeanne’s character. She turns to her father.

“Just go. I’ll be fine here,” she says. Isabeau snorts disbelievingly, and Jeanne glares at her over her father’s shoulder. “Stop that. You aren’t helping.” Isabeau looks rather taken aback at this direct approach, blinking in surprise. Jeanne takes advantage of the silence. “Father, really. I know you rarely go into town, but this house is well known there.”

“Known?” her father says wonderingly, looking up at the towers and stonework, the sheer cliffs-edge drop to the sea.

“Yes,” Jeanne says. “There is a curse on the garden. Anyone who picks a rose-”

“Becomes my prisoner,” Isabeau cuts back in, clearly trying to establish herself as a frightening monster again if the patently ridiculous snarl she gives is any indication. Arsène cowers at Jeanne’s elbow.

“Yes, well, or someone of their bloodline,” Jeanne argues back.

“I offered him that option,” Isabeau says through gritted teeth. “He refused.”

Jeanne is mildly surprised at this. She knows, in a distant sort of way, that her father must love her. She’s never been confronted with evidence quite so direct that he’s capable of facing the consequences of his own actions, however.

“I was the fool who plucked the rose,” he moans dramatically.

“That’s become obvious,” Jeanne says patiently. “Look, it’s generally the daughters, anyway. Either they’ve asked for one of the roses as a gift, or the father has a few to spare-”

“I’m not letting you take my place!”

“But they’re always fine,” Jeanne adds firmly. “Gabrielle ended up married to a lord, after her stay.”

Her father perks up considerably at the mention of lords.

“Really,” he says hopefully, looking over at Isabeau. Isabeau frowns, but nods.

“I promise no harm will come to your daughter,” she grumbles.

“But,” Arsène looks at Jeanne, “what will I do without you?”

“I expect you’ll manage,” Isabeau says impatiently. “Now, is she staying or not? I want my dinner.”

Isabeau vanishes into the depths of the castle as soon as they enter. Jeanne stifles her disappointed curiosity at losing the opportunity to learn any more about the mysterious d’Argent heiress. In the secret dark curl of her heart she has always carried a fondness for the legendary Isabeau d’Argent. The way she’s talked about as a tempest, the savage Clytemnestra bite of her, the utter beastliness of being unrestrained by a father or husband or brother. At the moment, she is easily consoled for the loss of Isabeau by the abundance of new space and enchantment to explore.

The garden, admittedly, was a little disappointing. For how prominently it features in the legend, and for the amount of people who have supposedly been captives here over the past twelve years, Jeanne had expected something lush and beautiful, tempting. Her father seems to have taken the last of the roses, and although she wishes she could have seen the garden in bloom she can’t regret his folly. This is by far the most fascinating thing that’s ever happened to her, and should it take a turn for the dull she’s still got M. Comtois’ book in her apron pocket.

Jeanne wanders up the staircase, already thinking of where she wants to explore first.

—-

Antoine Mercier sits in the one remotely respectable establishment in this backwater town, brooding over a tankard of ale. There isn’t anyone here he considers his equal, precisely, but he tolerates a few of the richer farmers. He spends most of what little time he wastes on socializing with Gervais Aubert, and they both pretend that it isn’t flattery on one side and finances on the other that they really enjoy.

“Shall we toast to your engagement?” Aubert asks, and then immediately regrets it. Mercier, who never has the cheeriest countenance to begin with, turns positively dour at the words.

“That father of hers has proved more of an obstacle than I anticipated.”

“Certainly not,” Aubert says hastily, hoping to divert Mercier’s irritation onto a source other than his tactlessness.

“Indeed,” Mercier glowers. “That old fool with his ridiculous inventions.”

Aubert thinks back to that day five years ago when Mercier realized the extent to which he had underestimated Arsène Vincent. When the man initially came to Mercier, asking for financing for one of his crackpot ideas in exchange for a share of the profits, Mercier had laughed him back into the street. Less than a year later, he had cause to regret his decision in the form of gloating letters from Vincent with detailed accounts of his profits and the shares due to his lucky investors.

Aubert thinks of that day, of the towering rage Mercier is capable of when thwarted, but he wisely doesn’t mention either the money or the breach.

“She’s hardly likely to get a better offer than you,” he says soothingly. Mercier grimaces, tapping his fingers on the table.

It’s undeniably true. Jeanne is neither beautiful nor young, and Mercier is one of the few people who know about her other attractions. As far as Aubert is aware, Jeanne herself doesn’t have any idea of the extent of her father’s wealth. She supports their small household with her garden and her strange affinity for growing things, and her father hoards his gold.

Speaking of Arsène Vincent...Aubert tenses as he sees the door to the pub swing wildly open. Mercier must see something in his expression, because he turns quickly to look at the door.

“Help! Help!”

Mme Laure, the barmaid, nearly drops an entire tray of glasses as Vincent barrels into her.

“Watch yourself,” she scolds, holding him at arm's length. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

“A monstrous beast has captured my daughter!”

“Jeanne?” Laure asks, bemusedly.

“Won’t anyone help me!” Vincent yells.

“Now, now.” Laure sets her tray down and guides Vincent over to one of the barstools. “Why don’t you calm down and have a drink, dear.”

“Aren’t you listening?! It has my poor child!”

“Jeanne will be fine,” Laure says firmly, plunking a glass in front of Vincent. “She can look after herself, and she’s hardly the first to disappear into that castle.”

“It’s...What...” Vincent goggles at her. “What do you mean?”

“You’d know if you ever came into town,” Hugo Larousse says, sliding onto the barstool next to Vincent and taking a swig of Vincent’s as yet untouched drink. Laure glares at him, but Larousse just shrugs and slides the glass so it's in front of his stool instead of Vincent’s. “That garden is cursed. Anyone who picks one of the roses has to remain in the castle until the last petal falls from the stem.”

“And they’ve all come back, haven’t they?” Laure says.

“All that we know about, anyway,” Larousse says darkly. Laure rolls her eyes, planting her hands on her hips.

“Don’t be a fool, Hugo,” she scolds.

Aubert expects that Mercier will take this opportunity to ingratiate himself with Jeanne’s father. Perhaps he’ll offer sympathy, or suggest going to the castle to try and bargain with the beast. Mercier is respected, if not particularly well liked, around town, and the others in the pub would likely follow his lead. To Aubert’s surprise, Mercier doesn’t say anything. He simply watches thoughtfully as Arsène Vincent mournfully rejects Laure’s offer of another pint and wanders back out into the cold night air.

“Bad luck, isn’t it? Jeanne being captured?” Aubert ventures.

“Perhaps,” Mercier says slowly. “Perhaps not.”

—-

There is something about the feel of the life-green smoothness of a plant you have cared for with your own hands, the leaves slick and cool against your palm, something Jeanne finds she misses almost immediately. It aches, Jeanne finds, to be torn from something that nourishes you, even and perhaps especially when nothing else left behind did. She has ample food, ample leisure, and no less love, after all, but not being in her garden any more pricks at her heart. There is an exquisite ache in knowing it persists, it thrives, it flourishes, and she is not there to see it, to nourish it.

It has been two days since she arrived at this house. Food has appeared at regular intervals, there are plenty of clothes in the room she chose, all mysteriously fitting her perfectly. But, she has neither seen nor spoken to anyone, and she misses her garden fiercely.

Jeanne is a little surprised at the level of loneliness she feels. She spends most of her days alone, save for occasional chats with her father and trips to the village to do their shopping. There appears to be a wider gap between that and utter solitude than she thought. Isabeau has not reappeared, and Jeanne hasn’t seen so much as a housemaid.

She’s explored much of the castle in her time here, but rather aimlessly. She still doesn’t have a solid idea of what rooms are where, which leads her to her current difficulty. The room in which she generally finds her dinner seems to have vanished, but perhaps she simply made a wrong turn?

Jeanne sighs, retracing her footsteps.

The corridors are just starting to look familiar again when she hears something coming down a passage ahead. She quickens her step, then reconsiders and walks as carefully and quietly as she can. While the possibility of meeting someone else is exciting, she doesn’t know that this castle is entirely safe.

The hall, fortunately carpeted with a thick rug that absorbs the sound of her steps easily, tapers to a wide set of double doors. They are closed, but light streams through the tiny crack between them. Jeanne tilts her head, listening. She definitely hears something, but can’t identify what it is. Frowning, she leans closer to the door.

There’s a sloshing and clinking sound that could be dishes being washed. Jeanne’s pulse leaps in excitement. Are these possibly the mysterious invisible servants? Holding her breath and hoping that she isn’t about to witness simply a mundane dish-washing spell, Jeanne goes to push the door open. Before she can, though, she hears something that stops her in her tracks.

“Are you certain that’s what she said?” a voice asks, incredulous. Jeanne’s breath catches in her throat and she leans incrementally closer to the door.

“I’m positive,” another voice says, beleaguered.

“I don’t believe it,” the first voice protests. “She generally at least makes _some_ effort at the start! It’s barely been two days!”

Jeanne frowns. Could they possibly be talking about her?

“Well, that is what she said. Honestly, Eulalie, a simple dish should be fine.”

“If you two are quite finished bickering about dinner,” says a third voice, “there’s someone at the door.”

Jeanne jumps back, but the door is already swinging open. To her utter astonishment, a candelabra, a chatelaine, and a teapot are staring right at her. This would not be so shocking, perhaps, did they not all have faces and the apparent ability to move about on their own.

“Oh,” Jeanne says. “Pardon me for intruding on you?” She doesn’t entirely mean to make it a question, but she’s so startled by the sudden evidence of so much magic that her voice tilts up without her conscious permission.

“Aren’t you a polite one!” the teapot coos, hopping toward her. Jeanne fights the urge to take another step back.

“Thank you?” she squeaks.

“I’m Eulalie, dear,” the teapot says.

“Jeanne,” and, beginning to recover her manners. “So nice to meet you.”

“We don’t generally let anyone see us,” the candelabra says, as Jeanne tries to work out a way to politely greet a teapot. Should she nod? Shaking hands is clearly out of the question.

“This is Albin,” the chatelaine says, indicating the candelabra by virtue of raising one of his dangling keys and pointing. “I’m Georges.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jeanne says, settling on an awkward sort of nod at the three of them.

Eulalie is beaming at her, Georges looks curious, and Albin has rapidly moved from slightly chagrined to positively excited.

“Well,” Albin says, “since she’s already seen us.”

Jeanne is not entirely sure how the tiny clock-face in the chatelaine manages to roll his eyes, but he certainly does.

“Albin, honestly,” Georges says. Albin hops over to Jeanne, gesturing to her with one flaming arm.

“Please? It’s been years since we had a proper guest for dinner.”

“Oh, all right,” Georges sighs. Albin gives a little hop of excitement and Jeanne hastily pulls the hem of her skirt out of range of the candle flame.

“If you’ll follow me,” Albin says, bowing grandly to Jeanne.

A short trip through the scrupulously neat kitchen later and Jeanne is ushered into a truly massive dining hall. The table in front of her is so long that the end is lost in shadow. She can’t see much by the light of Albin’s candles, but the elaborate stone fireplace to her right (so large she could probably stand up in it) and the dark wall of indistinguishable frescoes to her left are grander than any she has seen before.

“Won’t you take a seat?” Albin asks. Jeanne is about to ask where the chairs are when an elaborately carved high-backed chair starts hopping toward her from a patch of shadow against the wall. She manages to stifle her yelp of surprise but does tumble into the chair rather gracelessly when it slides in behind her. “Any favorite dishes?”

“Oh, I’m certain anything you’ve prepared will suffice,” Jeanne says.

“We will try to discover which you prefer,” Albin says happily, as though the prospect of such a labor is a delight. “For now, dear mademoiselle, please enjoy the evening’s entertainment.”

As he finishes speaking, a cabinet at the end of the room opens and dishes spill out. Jeanne gasps, but they don’t fall to the floor and break. Instead, they roll down the table and begin stacking themselves into elaborate towers. Before she has quite taken in this sight, platters loaded with food begin popping into place around the table. Jeanne manages to sample bits from various tasty dishes as they whirl by her, accompanied to a musical clinking from the spoons that are diving and swimming in a vast crystal punchbowl at the center of the table.

“Your friends are very...synchronized,” Jeanne complements the spoon laid neatly by her plate. It hops up and bows to her in thanks.

The dishes continue their vastly entertaining display, but Jeanne is too distracted trying to catch and eat her dinner to properly appreciate it.

Albin, rather unnervingly, is also watching her every bite with wide excited eyes.

“Oh, would you-“ Jeanne stumbles, beginning to offer him a dish and then hesitating, “can you eat?”

“Very kind of you, dear,” Albin waves an arm, candle flame flickering with the movement but not going out. “No, none of us need food, except the mistress.”

“I see.” Jeanne feels rude eating when no one else is, but Albin’s face falls when she puts down her silverware so she hastily picks it up again. “Everything is so delicious,” she compliments. Albin beams. Georges comes swishing out from the kitchen and hops up on the table next to Albin. Now they’re both simply watching Jeanne eat. She sets her fork down. “So,” she says, raising her voice slightly as the dishes in the centre of the table stack themselves into an unnervingly tall replica of the castle’s north tower, “do you do this often?”

“We haven’t gotten to entertain in ages,” Albin sighs. Jeanne frowns slightly.

“Is the enchantment meant to be a secret? I won’t tell anyone if it is,” she adds hastily.

“Not precisely,” Georges says, glancing at the dishes over his shoulder and shaking his watch-face head slightly. The plates spring into another formation. “The dishes seem to have no end of routines they’ve invented. Boredom mostly.”

“We don’t have much to do,” Albin explains.

“So were you all...” Jeanne trails off, unsure suddenly if inquiring as to their humanity is rude. Napkins in heavy silver napkin rings emblazoned with a crest of some kind sashay past Jeanne and start swishing out a gavotte.

“Servants, mostly,” Georges says, pulling Jeanne’s attention back. “When the castle was cursed, everyone inside it at the time was transformed.”

“I’m sorry, that must have been awful.”

“Well I certainly miss being able to see more than twenty centimeters off the ground,” Georges replies crisply. “Other than that it’s not so bad, though. We have others to share our lot, which always lightens an unpleasant burden.”

His words are punctuated by the vases of flowers congregated in a line behind him all bursting into bloom at once and shedding a rainbow of petals straight up into the air. Jeanne jumps in her seat, but Albin and Georges seem completely unphased. The napkins twirl happily through the flower petals, not missing a beat.

“It’s a bit more interesting when we have a guest in the castle,” Albin says. “We weren’t sure how strangers would react to the enchantment, so at first we all stayed hidden. Then,” he makes a movement Jeanne thinks is meant to be a shrug, “it became habit.”

A circular curtain slowly retracts up into the ceiling, revealing a massive chandelier that blazes into light and illuminates the dining room. Jeanne blinks and looks around, startled. The room is much cheerier with the lights and flowers and brightly patterned china dancing on the table, but she can’t help but notice that the decor of the room itself is rather somber.

“And a bit of a stimulating challenge for us,” Georges says. “Keeping the castle clean, preparing meals, making sure there are enough clothes and jewelry and things for the guests, all while staying out of sight. As you can see, some of us,” he shoots a pointed look at one napkin which has another napkin clasped in a dramatic dip, “have reacted rather poorly to the lack of attention.”

“It’s rather lonely, though,” Jeanne says sympathetically, “isn’t it?”

“Well, we do have each other,” Albin says, putting the arm around Georges. Jeanne smiles at them. It’s nice to talk to someone other than herself.

“Listen to us, going on about our troubles,” Georges says briskly. “Albin, why don’t we give her a tour of the palace? I’m sure Mademoiselle Sulk hasn’t bothered.” Georges doesn’t look to Jeanne for confirmation of this fact, so she’s spared the dilemma of choosing between the polite lie and the unvarnished truth. “And you lot,” Georges says to the dishes, “go see Eulalie. You know how she gets when everyone isn’t properly washed and put away.”

This seems to signal some sort of finale. The dishes construct a sort of pair of curtains, parting and whirling into a backdrop just as the last napkin whisks off the table and out of sight. The spoons, which have hopped their way up onto the chandelier somehow, all perform a synchronized dive into the punch bowl, which is simultaneously being filled by a fountain of champagne pouring from the necks of six bottles. Jeanne applauds politely and Albin beams and bows.

“The champagne was my idea,” he says.

“Of course it was,” Georges mutters, shaking his head fondly.

A serving cart speeds over to the side of the table, and the dishes and silverware stack themselves on it neatly.

“Dinner was delicious,” Jeanne says, sincerely, “and vastly entertaining.” She could swear several of the dishes actually sparkle in delight.

“So,” Georges says, once they’ve gathered in a little group in the entry hall. Albin and Georges are up on the fourth stair, Jeanne is waiting politely for their tour to begin, and Eulalie is insisting Jeanne take along a cup of tea.

“Stop wiggling, Denis,” Eulalie says, exasperated. This doesn’t have much of an effect on the teacup (Jeanne can’t bring herself to drink out of him but holds him gently on her palm), but Georges’ quelling glare gets him to settle down. Jeanne breathes a sigh of relief. She’s terribly afraid of accidentally breaking him.

“We haven’t given a formal tour in twelve years, so forgive us if we’re a little rusty,” Georges continues. “Of course, we can give you an abbreviated tour, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

They all look at Jeanne, and she correctly guesses that they’re hoping she’ll ask for the full tour.

“Oh, show me everything,” she says, smiling encouragingly at Albin, who has started to bounce a little in excitement.

—-

They start in the morning room on the easternmost side of the manor. It’s positively cheerful compared to the heavy formality of the dining room and entrance hall, with wallpaper covered in dainty violets and a small upright piano surrounded by elegant chairs.

“Horrifically uncomfortable,” Georges says, indicating the chairs, “but fortunately they’re only for company.”

They continue clockwise through the rooms off the entrance hall, most of which Jeanne has never seen. The kitchen and dining room are peered into briefly, the ballroom with its elaborately painted ceiling and high marble columns lingered over, and a second, nearly identical, drawing room is the sight of a brief tussle between Eulalie, Denis, and bedtime. Jeanne glances around, hoping that the fracas hasn’t alerted Isabeau to their presence, but the hall is empty.

Albin, Georges, and Jeanne continue up the stairs alone.

“None of the bedrooms are very interesting,” Georges says, floating down a long hall. It splits off into a second hall, but Georges goes straight past it. Jeanne glances down the hall, curious. Albin clears his throat behind her and she jumps.

“My apologies—” she starts, but Albin waves an arm.

“Of course you’re curious about the place you’re living. It’s natural. That was the portrait gallery, but they’ve all been either taken down or covered up.”

“Oh,” Jeanne says, flushing. “Of course.”

“Music room,” Georges calls from farther along the passage, and Jeanne and Albin hurry to catch up to him.

There’s a second grand piano here, although it’s smaller than the one down in the ballroom. There is also a harp, which begins playing an elaborate tune as soon as they set foot inside. A violin hops up out of its case and strikes up an accompaniment, and the piano grudgingly joins in a few bars (and several jabs from the violin bow) later.

Jeanne claps after the impromptu performance, running a hand down the spine of the harp, which quivers happily. She also pats the piano and violin in thanks. They all (somehow) contrive to bow and Jeanne gives them another round of applause for good measure. The harp tries to start up an encore, but Georges shoots it a quelling look and it tapers into silence with a final twang.

“We should go out on the walk while there’s still enough light to see the fountain court,” he says.

The walk, an open-air balcony projecting out over the courtyard below, gives them a lovely, if bare, view. Jeanne frowns down at the garden, but quickly clears her expression and asks a few polite questions about the large fountain and the neat hedges surrounding it before Georges or Albin can notice anything amiss. With all the disadvantages they have, the house is astonishingly well maintained. It feels a little spoiled and selfish to complain about the gardens not suiting her precisely when there’s so much more to the house.

“Can you see the sea from here?” Jeanne asks.

“No, not from this side of the house. There’s a path that goes down to the shore that isn’t far from the terrace,” Georges says. Jeanne nods with polite interest.

Blinking as her eyes readjust to the dimness inside, Jeanne turns toward the west wing and nearly walks directly into a closed set of doors. She frowns slightly, glancing over at Albin and Georges. Every other door she’s encountered in the palace has swung open automatically, to the extent that she’s started apologizing whenever she needs to go down a hall as every room on the way tries to welcome her.

Albin hops between her and the doors, waving his arms.

“Oh, nothing to see over here. Just dust and disrepair!”

“Certainly,” Jeanne says slowly. She might believe him, if it weren’t for the fact that Georges is very clearly shooting him a ’stop being so obvious, you fool’ look. Still, she’s a polite person, and a guest here. She takes a step back from the doors, holding up her hands. “I was merely startled. We can continue past, if you like.”

The hair on the back of Jeanne’s neck prickles as a low growl emanates from behind her. She turns slowly, cautious, but Isabeau doesn’t look poised for attack like she half-expected. Instead, Isabeau is lounging against a wall. She’s mostly in shadow, but her sheer bulk would identify her even if Jeanne hadn’t been half-dreading this meeting.

“Well, well, well,” Isabeau drawls. “Nosing about, are we?”

“Isabeau,” Albin says, sounding exasperated. Jeanne, still wary, doesn’t take her eyes off Isabeau to look, although she hears the metallic clanks as Albin hops up next to her. “We were just leaving.”

“Were you,” Isabeau steps forward slightly, into a shaft of light. Jeanne fights to retain her composure. Logically, she knows that no one has ever been hurt by ‘The Beast,’ as Isabeau is known around town, but it’s hard to fight against the animal instinct to flee from a much larger and more dangerous creature than she has ever encountered before. Isabeau has not hurt anyone, but she could. Easily.

“I’ll just go back to my room,” Jeanne says, her instinct telling her to placate, to de-escalate the situation.

“Like father, like daughter, I suppose,” Isabeau says, just as Jeanne draws level with her. Jeanne looks at her calmly, and doesn’t ask what she means.

“Excuse me,” Jeanne says politely, brushing by. Isabeau snarls after her, but Jeanne doesn’t flinch.

“Stay away from the west wing!” she growls. Jeanne pauses, glancing over her shoulder.

“Of course,” she says blandly. “I wouldn’t want to be rude.”

With this parting shot, she returns to her room.

—-

“Pleased with yourself?”

Isabeau hates how Georges, even when he literally comes up to her ankle, manages to make her feel so small.

“You two shouldn’t be bringing her over here,” she snaps, trying to push the blame off. It sits uncomfortably on her shoulders.

“Yes, well, we wouldn’t need to show her around if you weren’t the worst host in the entire kingdom,” Georges says coolly. Albin glances between them, frowning.

“No harm done,” he says. “Jeanne is nice.”

“Which you’ve learned in the, what, ten minutes you’ve known her?” Isabeau asks, incredulity clear in her tone.

“I like her, too,” Georges says, which sets Isabeau back, a little. Albin likes nearly everyone, but Georges is much harder to please. She tries a different strategy.

“Whether she’s pleasant to be around or not is not my concern. This wing is closed off for a reason.”

“We were hardly about to open the door for her,” Georges scoffs.

“Well, why not?” Albin asks quietly. Both Isabeau and Georges gape at him. “I think she could be the one.”

Isabeau feels, suddenly, as if she’s been submerged in ice-water.

“What?” she asks, hoarsely.

“Well,” Albin perks up, eager to explain his reasoning. Isabeau grows immeasurably more queasy. “First of all, she knows so much about enchantments. I think she’s got some magic herself, and Eulalie agrees with me.”

“Eulalie thinks every girl that comes into this castle is the one,” Isabeau gripes. Albin ignores the interruption.

“She figured out about us, didn’t she? That shows cleverness. And she didn’t panic, or treat us strangely.”

“Just because she knows about magic doesn’t mean she can break the spell,” Georges says, much more gently than Isabeau would have.

“I know that,” Albin says, waving his hands so the flames dance back and forth. “I’m not asking you to make your addresses to her, or anything of that sort. Just get to know her a little.”

“Because that ended so well all the other times,” Isabeau says flatly. Albin deflates a little.

“You could at least try,” he says quietly.

“I’ll begin my attempts immediately,” Isabeau sneers, striding past him and unlocking the door to the west wing. She slams it behind her, so hard that it shudders on its hinges.

The heavy, dusty velvet curtains that hang over all the windows in the first two rooms of this wing shut out all light, but Isabeau knows her way in the dark. She’s the only one who comes here; even Eulalie has given up trying to bring cheer or cleanliness into this part of the house. It’s a compromise, of sorts. Isabeau has a sanctuary where she can be completely alone, and the others have the run of the rest of the house and can manage it as they like.

Isabeau opens the door to the third room, throwing herself heavily into the massive chair. The room is largely bare other than this and an eternally cold fireplace. There’s just a small, delicately carved table, a ridiculously baroque mirror covered with a black sheet, and an open balcony. The portraits on the walls, those that neither brute strength nor magic could remove, are all slashed to ribbons. It’s dusty, and dismal even when the sun is streaming in from outside, and yet the worst part of it is also the most beautiful.

A single rose blooms under a bell jar on the little table. It is suspended, held captive in the jar by some mysterious force. A few petals have fallen from it, settling on the table below.

Isabeau doesn’t look at it. She’s stared at it so long since it appeared, has seen so many roses wilt and die, that she could sketch it from memory, even with claws. It’s beautiful, but unutterably painful to look at. She can’t bear to have anyone else see it, not even Albin and Georges. At least having it in here with her, where no one else goes, at least she has some sort of knowledge and control over this whole thing. At least there’s something about this entire nightmare that she can choose.

Trying to avoid the rose for a little longer, Isabeau strides over to the mirror and pulls the cloth off. There’s always that first sickening moment, when she sees herself again. It’s not like she can ever forget, but the visual reminder is too much for her some days. Most days.

“Show me the girl,” she snaps, still on edge from their confrontation. She calms a little, seeing Jeanne back in her room. She’s propped up on the window seat, re-reading the one book she brought with her. It’s probably unfair of Isabeau, that she hasn’t let Jeanne send for her things, or shown her around the house, or mentioned the library. She pushes away the guilt. The others have been taking care of her, clearly. She’s being fed and clothed, what more does she need?

Isabeau drops the cloth back over the mirror, flinging herself into the chair again. That’s the only thing of value she really inherited from her parents, furniture so old and sturdy it can support the massive animal that she’s become.

“It’s hopeless,” Isabeau mumbles, glaring at the rose. She hates roses, and she hates the whimpering fairy tale heiresses that forget to shut doors and complain about the draft, that care less for her rudeness than her ill fated looks, that count on trembling fingers the days until their princes or fathers or lords come to ransom them back like briefly-pawned pieces of jewelry. At least Jeanne doesn’t cry all the time. Eulalie is absolutely insufferable when they’re stuck with a cryer.

When the curse first descended over the manor, Isabeau had been too stunned to take much in. She managed to bear the odd sight of the entirety of the staff transformed into candlesticks, feather dusters, teapots, and the like. She managed to pull herself together enough to help Georges calm everyone down, to get the house into some sort of order, to stumble up the stairs to her bedchamber and close the door quietly behind her. It wasn’t until she looked in that hideous, hateful mirror that her composure cracked cleanly in two. She stared at the monstrous wreck her once-beautiful features had transformed into, and she started to laugh.

It was just so absurd. So unexpected. And yet, so entirely in keeping with the rest of her life. There wasn’t a single gift her mother ever gave her that wasn’t poisoned; why should her looks be any different?

Isabeau had thought, with both her parents dead, that she would finally be free. And yet, after only a few glorious months she was saddled with the responsibility of an entire castle, trapped in a way that simple inheritance had barely grazed the surface of. This curse can’t be capably managed by Albin and Georges, while Isabeau expertly dodges her responsibilities and serious conversations. The curse depends entirely on her.

“You have become a petulant child too long indulged by life.” The words come as clearly and as sharply to her memory as they did twelve years ago. “You must learn to open your heart to others, or remain cut off from love forever.”

Even after the initial shock of the transformation faded, she hadn’t really understood the curse until the first rose. She was yanked suddenly from the dining room out into the moonlit garden. She had still been blinking in surprise when the screaming started. The man tried to flee from her, but his feet appeared to be stuck to the earth by some invisible force.

Whoever tries to take one of the roses from the garden is trapped in the manor until the final petal falls from the rose and it dies.

Isabeau has learned the rules more specifically from her long experimentation with this curse, and the aid of some of the nastier, larger, and dustier books that she inherited. The person who picks the rose can be replaced by someone of their bloodline. The garden, even when neglected, puts out a prodigious amount of roses. The amount of people who have fallen into the trap seems to suggest some kind of glamour, some power the roses have to lure unsuspecting people in. There have been many, many people over the years.

She has from their arrival until the last petal falls from the rose to fall in love with them, and be loved in return.

She tries. Not particularly for her own sake. In her experience, anyone who picks a clearly enchanted rose either is too greedy for their own good or too foolish. But she tries for Albin, for Georges, for the others.

The men are worse, marginally. For one, they always try to fight her. It’s terribly irritating, as Isabeau is a good three to four times stronger than the average man, and it’s difficult to subdue them without actually injuring them. For another, not even the most optimistic of the spoons could envision Isabeau actually marrying a man, let alone falling in love with one.

In a different way, though, the women are just as bad. Most of them cry, which is never pleasant and sends Albin into absolute spins. Eulalie seems to continually expect that maybe this time, Isabeau will miraculously gain tact and the ability to offer comfort, and she leaves cup after cup of tea in the hopes that Isabeau will offer one to the girl. Isabeau moved the mirror and the rose into the remote west wing and forbade the others from entering partly because she was utterly done with Eulalie’s children chirping “Tea is going cold,” at her.

Once they stop crying and start walking resignedly around the manor and wasting a great deal of firewood by insisting on sitting in different rooms every day, Isabeau generally attempts at least one or two conversations. She used to be considered almost scandalously charming, and it’s a bit depressing how rapidly it becomes clear that most of that was down to her looks.

She just doesn’t have the patience. In some ways, she’s happier like this than she was before. She can sit in her gloomy room, with her view edged by gargoyles and hideous decorative stone urns, and be left alone with her thoughts. Not particularly pleasant thoughts, it must be admitted, but at least she doesn’t need to wear ball gowns and dance with clumsy men who step on her toes. At least she doesn’t have to swallow down anger, or endure a lecture from her mother about how any number of things she enjoys are unladylike.

The others are trapped with her, though. Albin has been a candlestick for twelve years, Georges a bundle of keys, and it is utterly, utterly unfair that the only thing that can free them, can free any of the castle inhabitants, is Isabeau being lovable.

She may be a lot of things, but self-deluding isn’t one of them. It’s hopeless.

—-

Nigh on winter is not the best time to rehabilitate a garden, but Jeanne works with what she has. And, after all, it’s an enchanted garden. Or, it was.

“How did it get this bad,” Jeanne mutters, digging her trowel into the earth for a particularly stubborn weed. Fortunately, the garden shed escaped the curse that enveloped the castle and all the tools are completely ordinary. She’s still adjusting to drinking out of teacups that giggle and squirm and forks that slide out of the way when she tries to use them for the incorrect course at mealtimes, she doesn’t particularly want to deal with that in the garden as well.

The one thing that can be said for the garden is that the bones of it are neat and well-maintained. The edges of the beds need a fresh coat of paint, the shed will hold a few more seasons but probably needs a new roof before too long, and the massive wall surrounding the manor is crumbling in places, but none of these are insurmountable obstacles. The feather dusters helped her rake up and burn the dead leaves, giggling whenever they inadvertently tumbled into their own little piles. The garden isn’t too overgrown. There are a fair amount of weeds, but it’s mostly bare dirt that’s starting to grow harder the colder it gets.

Jeanne hadn’t noticed until she began, although in retrospect she probably should have assumed, the huge amount and variety of rosebushes that populate the garden. There’s a small orchard and some wide, full-sun beds that probably held decorative flowers, but all along the walls and trellises of the garden are roses.

At this point, two weeks in? Three weeks? She’s managed to pluck some more details of the curse from conversations with Albin. She knows the basics, everyone in town does, but the transformed servants and the falling of the rose petals came as a surprise. She had always assumed people just eventually escaped from the castle, or were rescued, or perhaps bribed their way out. Albin gets oddly cagey if she tries to get any specifics out of him, and Georges is far too savvy to be worked for clues, so she’s left with a few key pieces missing from her understanding of the puzzle.

“Where should we put this?” Denis asks. Jeanne looks down at him and suppresses a laugh. Denis and Euphrasie, the youngest and most playful of Eulalie’s children, have filled themselves up with dirt from the pile she’s painstakingly dug loose.

“We’re going to need it, once the bulbs are in the ground,” she says, smiling at them.

“Can we pour it on?” Euphrasie asks excitedly.

“Yes,” Jeanne says, “but if your mother catches you, say I scolded you and told you to go back inside.”

“Will do,” Denis grins.

With the teacups helping, planting speeds by. What she had planned to last the entire afternoon only takes a few hours, and Jeanne is left with nothing to do.

Denis and Euphrasie have gone to wash up, and Georges and Albin are busy all day with a particularly tricky bit of spell-work that they’re creating to repair a leak in the roof. Jeanne doesn’t want to bother them, and she’s no use at anything but growing magic. She sighs, resigning herself to a fifth re-read of M. Comtois’ book as she walks up the stairs. At the first landing, though, she pauses.

The west wing.

She tries to think of the last time she saw Isabeau. She definitely spotted her shadow on the lawn, peering out of the house disapprovingly at Jeanne in the gardens. Jeanne bites her lip, thinking, debating. This might be her only chance to look into the west wing, to see what’s hidden there. She doesn’t mean to pry into things that don’t concern her, but the curse does concern her. Isn’t it fair for her to try and find out a bit more about how it functions, now that she’s caught up in it as well? Besides, it’s midday. Surely Isabeau is still outside?

Taking a deep breath, Jeanne tries the handle. Locked. Focusing her magic, she can almost feel the residual hum still deep in the veins of the wooden doors, but it’s not enough on its own. She gnaws on her lip, thinking. She has her hair tightly pinned up for working in the garden, and can get a pin loose without much trouble. It’s not much, and Jeanne is not practiced at lock-picking, but it’s enough to give her a gap to press against, a way in. She focuses on the minute clicking of the lock, the feel of the door against her hand, and is satisfied when it clicks open after a few moments’ effort.

The door is very heavy, and closes much more quickly than she had intended as the knob slips out of her grasp. Jeanne, heart in her throat, wraps a hand around the side of the door. Better to scrape her knuckles than to risk the door banging closed.

She manages to get into the room without further incident, though, and once she expects the weight of the door, she can keep hold of it long enough to close it quietly.

It’s completely dark in the west wing, the only source of light the tiny gap at the bottom of the door. She feels her way along the walls until she touches something soft and velvety, pulling the curtain aside to reveal a grimy window. This, at least, allows her to see enough to make her way through the room without tripping. The next room is just as dark, but she sees the outline of a door dimly. She strides over to the door, as quickly and carefully as she can. There is almost no furniture in these rooms, other than the dark shapes looming on the edges, which makes the going easier.

This final door opens easily, and silently. The room in front of her is lit by an open balcony. Frowning, she glances around. She isn’t entirely sure what she expected. A different portrait gallery, perhaps? Smashed and shattered furniture? A secret library of occult spellbooks? Instead, there’s just a large chair, and a balcony, and something tall and narrow in the corner that’s been covered by a sheet.

A gleam catches Jeanne’s eye, and she looks at the small table by the balcony more closely. There is something on it, after all. It’s on the edge of the table, and at first the sun was too bright for her to see it properly. As her eyes adjust, she can at last discern what it is.

A rose.

Jeanne walks closer, hesitant and oddly nervous. The presence of a rose should not be surprising, this whole curse is bound up in them, after all, but it still somehow makes her uneasy. Could this be the same rose? The one her father took, the one that transported them back to the garden, the one that vanished, somehow, in chaos of her father leaving and Jeanne staying? It’s difficult to tell in the sunlight, but she is fairly certain it’s glowing slightly, red and pulsing. Slowly, she reaches out a hand and removes the bell jar, setting it gently on the stone floor. The rose hovers in the same spot, clearly bound there by some enchantment. Instinctively, Jeanne starts to reach for it, then jerks her hand back. Last time, touching the rose brought her here. Who knows what it might do if she touches it again?

Jeanne is just beginning to turn, to examine the rest of the room more closely, when a shadow falls over her. She clenches her jaw, dread curdling in her stomach.

“Hello,” she tries cautiously, “I was just-”

Isabeau strides past her, picking the bell jar up from the ground and placing it gently back over the rose. Jeanne backs up as Isabeau places herself between her and the table.

“I wouldn’t want to be rude,” Isabeau says calmly, “but get the fuck out of my rooms.”

“I didn’t mean-” Jeanne tries. Isabeau snorts derisively, pushing past her to fling herself down into the chair.

“Of course you didn’t. Your sort never do.”

“What do you mean by that?” Jeanne asks, more curious than offended.

“Ladies,” Isabeau says, the word laden with scorn. “You take what isn’t yours, fling my hospitality back in my face, and can never leave well enough alone.”

“That isn’t precisely fair,” Jeanne says, still keeping her voice very even. “Whatever this curse is, it involves me too.”

Isabeau clenches a hand, claws scraping loudly along the wooden chair arm.

“Why can’t you just wait out your time like the rest of them,” Isabeau bites out. “Leave me and my things alone; the rest of the castle is yours.”

“I just want some answers,” Jeanne protests. A low grumbling starts in Isabeau’s chest, her fur practically standing on end.

“Get. Out.”

Jeanne sighs. She clearly isn’t going to gain any ground by staying and badgering Isabeau. So much for the west wing.

She’s nearly back to the first room when Albin comes hopping in, looking positively frantic.

“We need to go,” he says to Jeanne, “now, before she-”

“Too late for that,” Jeanne says quietly, letting Albin herd her out onto the staircase. Albin slumps a little, but doesn’t stop beckoning her onward until they’re all the way on the other side of the castle, safely shut away in Jeanne’s room.

“What happened?” the dresser, Dominique, asks excitedly. Albin also looks to Jeanne for an explanation, a great deal more nervously.

“It was my fault,” Jeanne says, collapsing backward on the bed with a sigh. “I shouldn’t have gone in the west wing.”

Dominique gasps, looking positively delighted. “Ooooh. Did Isabeau find you?”

Albin lets out a moan of distress. Jeanne turns on her side to look at him.

“She didn’t seem upset,” Jeanne says bracingly. “Merely vexed by my intrusion.” A terrific splintering crash echoes in the distance, and Albin heaves a sigh. Jeanne winces. “I’m sorry.”

The three of them sit in silence for a few moments, listening to the clamor of furniture breaking in the west wing. The door to Jeanne’s room bursts open to admit an irritable Georges, an anxious Eulalie, and three teacups (Jeanne isn’t entirely sure which are which, still).

“I apologize for the noise, Jeanne,” Georges starts, then catches sight of Albin’s face. Albin quickly tries to marshal an expression of indifference, but it’s too late. “What happened?” Georges barks out.

“I went into the west wing,” Jeanne says apologetically. It was really foolish of her to intrude this way, after being warned, and now she’s upset all the servants. Eulalie gasps at Jeanne’s disclosure, and one of her children gives a little hop of excitement. That’ll be Euphrasie, then. “I’m sorry,” Jeanne says, sitting up to look earnestly at Georges. “Truly I am. I know it doesn’t excuse my behavior, but I wanted to see if I could find anything to help break the curse.”

Georges sighs, hopping up onto the bed. “Clear out, the rest of you,” he scolds. “Albin, you too.”

Albin looks rather thrilled to be anywhere other than here at the moment, so he helps Eulalie herd the children back out into the hall. Jeanne looks at Georges, who is frowning thoughtfully after them.

“Albin has been talking, hasn’t he?”

“Well,” Jeanne hedges, “he may have explained a few things. But Georges, I’m caught up in this curse with the rest of you, aren’t I? Isn’t it fair for me to want to know what’s going on?”

“Probably,” Georges says quietly. “Keep in mind, though, the rest of us have been here for twelve years. You’ve been here a few weeks, and will be back home three months from now.”

“But if I can help,” Jeanne protests, “I want to try.” Georges shakes his head sadly.

“I’m sorry, Jeanne. I just don’t think you can. Better to keep out of it, and out of her way, as much as possible.”

—-

It’s unpleasant, being confined to the west wing. Isabeau rarely stays there, even when there are strangers in the manor. After the confrontation with Jeanne, she makes it three whole days before she feels as if she might go mad if she stays inside any longer.

Jeanne is easily avoided, at least. She’s in the front garden most of the time, but Isabeau always double checks the mirror to make sure before she ventures out. There’s a passage leading over to the servants’ stair and out directly onto the sea path. It’s really too narrow for Isabeau in her current form, but putting up with a few minutes of claustrophobia is worth the certain knowledge that she won’t encounter anyone.

Isabeau takes a deep breath as she emerges, letting the sea air wash into her lungs. It clears her head, which feels foggy and cobwebbed from spending so long in her gloomy set of rooms. She walks down to the end of the path, stopping on the narrow wooden dock. She contemplates going for a swim. It’s cold out, but her fur is thick and she’s swum in winter before. She unhooks her cape and tunic, the cobbled together outfit that she wears most days. Dominique complains that she looks utterly tragic, and constantly threatens to make her something ‘suitable’ to wear, but Isabeau has thus far forbade it. She was always one to choose comfort over aesthetics, and now even more so than ever. What’s the point of a beautiful dress if it doesn’t get you anything?

Isabeau strides to the edge of the dock and dives in, water crashing and then going silent around her ears. The momentum from the jump sends her deep, and she paddles up for air as the icy cold from the water burrows down beneath her fur. She breaks the surface of the water with a gasp, pawing her mane away from her eyes in irritation. She doesn’t particularly miss hairpins, but she does miss the ability to manage her hair so easily, to keep it off her face and out of her eyes.

The manor house and the cliff it’s perched on throw part of the little cove into shade, but Isabeau swims fast and far enough to easily outstrip the shadow. She surfaces on a pebbly beach on the opposite side of the cove. Walking, it’s about two miles along the strand to get back to the manor, but the road is heavily curved. It’s not really that far, as the crow flies, especially as Isabeau both runs and swims very fast. Still, it’s something.

Not for the first time, Isabeau wonders what would happen if she simply left. Would the curse follow her? Would she turn back into a human if she got far enough away from the manor? Or, alternately, would the others transform, should she be absent for long enough?

It’s a tempting idea, running away. She could live in the forest on fish and rabbits. Even the wind and rain would be more pleasant than having interfering busybodies digging up her garden and poking through her things.

It’s a tempting idea, but the fear of the curse backfiring somehow always stops her. She’s not so worried about herself, but the vengeful enchantress who cursed her clearly had no qualms about involving innocent bystanders so long as her twisted idea of justice was served. Curses are tricky things, and Isabeau would rather be trapped in this form, in this place, than to have Albin and Georges and the others wink out of existence because she has some silly ideas about freedom.

Isabeau slinks back up the sea path, the wind blowing her salt-encrusted fur into fantastic knots and whorls. She’ll have to wash it. Isabeau grimaces, pulling her cloak tighter around her body. If she goes in through the kitchens, Eulalie will certainly heat some water for a bath for her. Eulalie will also scold, though, and pester her about talking to Jeanne. Instead, Isabeau creeps down the corridors until she spots Georges.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Georges says drily.

“Amusing as always,” Isabeau grumbles. Thank goodness Georges knows as much spell-work as he does. Isabeau has no idea how they’d manage this mausoleum without him.

“Are you expecting me to sort that mess,” he says, looking Isabeau up and down.

“Please,” Isabeau says with a sigh.

She doesn’t relax fully until they’re up in the north tower. It’s technically more accessible than the west wing (although the locked door didn’t keep Jeanne out particularly well, for that matter), but it’s high up and remote and requires a lot of climbing. Georges insists on being carried, which Isabeau does without protest.

At the top of the tower is a small room. It’s sparse, but the bed, chair, and clawfoot bathtub are really all she needs, and the fireplace keeps it warm during even the coldest months. 

Georges mutters a spell and traces out a complicated sigil on the floor and the tub starts to fill with steaming water. He settles himself in the chair and Isabeau sighs as she climbs into the bathtub.

“It’s hardly fair to interrogate me while I’m vulnerable.”

“You’ve never been vulnerable a day in your life.”

“Untrue,” Isabeau props her chin on the edge of the bath. “I’m sensitive.”

Georges snorts. “So. When are you going to cease sulking around the west wing and fulfill your obligations as a host?”

“Perhaps,” Isabeau says thoughtfully, “after the last petal falls from the rose.”

“Very amusing.”

“I try.”

“You could simply apologize, you know,” Georges says quietly. “Jeanne is a kind person, unlike you. She won’t hold the massive childish tantrum you’ve been throwing against you.”

“What’s the point?” Isabeau grumbles.

“Albin thinks she could be the one.”

“Albin thinks every girl is the one.”

Georges doesn’t say anything for a while, letting Isabeau scrub the salt from her fur and get halfway through attacking it with a detangling comb before he speaks.

“I don’t know, she does like that author you’re always reading.”

Isabeau pauses, one arm extended so she can comb through a particularly nasty snarl on her wrist.

“Madame d’Aulnoy?”

“Yes. Haven’t you seen that book she’s always reading? Fairy Tales, I think it’s called.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Isabeau says, carefully not looking at Georges. “Lots of people like her.”

“Just thought I’d mention it,” Georges says. Isabeau growls.

“Tell Albin to stop snooping through Jeanne’s things for evidence.”

“I’m not your messenger boy. Tell him yourself.”

Georges sweeps off, leaving Isabeau with rapidly cooling bathwater and a sense of vague unease.

—-

When Jeanne was a child, her magic was wilder. Burying her hands in the earth like she wants to do, needs to do sometimes, would lead to such a massive profusion of flowers that the garden would be nearly overrun. Her father, never particularly patient with anything except his own work, would get irritated easily with noise or disruption in the house, but the garden was Jeanne’s domain. She could be messy there, and utterly herself.

If it was hers to run wild in, though, it also became her responsibility to keep it healthy, and thriving. Through painstaking trial and error, she learned how to control her magic. She became practiced at the slow careful effort it takes to coax unseen root vegetables into fullness, at the tingling feeling of mentally running along tree branches to give budding fruit the gentlest of nudges.

The castle garden is largely barren when she arrives, but it quickly reminds her of those early days when she had less control. Things grow more easily and faster here than they do at home, but the plants are also less easy to predict and control. The roses in particular shy away from her magic, any issues with them need to be teased out slowly and gently, like detangling a skein of golden thread.

Jeanne has her eyes closed and is leaning back against an apple tree, trying to sort out if the lack of fruit is due to the season or something else, when she hears a tiny coughing noise. She blinks slowly into awareness of the outside world, slightly disoriented at first. A small silver teaspoon is standing by one of her boots.

“Hello, Henri,” she says, smiling at Albin and Georges’ ward.

“Hi Jeanne,” he says, grinning at her. “Sorry to bother you, but Mme Eulalie sent me out to fetch you.”

“Oh,” Jeanne tries not to frown. Eulalie is kind, but she’s also incredibly interfering. Jeanne was rather keen on staying in the garden all afternoon. No point in putting Henri in the middle, though, so she gets to her feet. She bends down, holding out a hand for Henri to hop up on. “Coming back in as well?”

“Yes, thanks,” he says politely. “Denis and I have almost talked the plates into teaching us their routine, I think.”

Henri chatters about the various inhabitants of the house as Jeanne makes her way inside and down to the kitchen. It’s busy, as usual. Jeanne has told Eulalie over and over that she doesn’t need elaborate gourmet meals (with varying entertainment by the flatware and china), but it has utterly failed to sink in.

“You wanted to see me?” Jeanne asks, as Henri hops off to find Denis.

“Oh, just wanted to make sure you had time to get ready for tea.”

“Right.” Jeanne glances at the kitchen clock. “Tea isn’t for over an hour.”

“Exactly,” Eulalie says. Her tone seems to imply something, but Jeanne can’t seem to suss out what it is.

“I’ll go get ready, then,” she says, figuring it’s better to just agree for now and work out the consequences later. Maybe she can track down Georges. He’s blunt enough to just tell her what’s going on.

Jeanne wanders out to the main staircase, not in any particular hurry. She generally takes tea in whatever state she’s gotten into from the garden, with only a quick wash beforehand. She has no idea what one could even do to make getting ready take an hour.

Georges is nowhere to be found, but she manages to rumble Albin coming out of a room on the upper landing.

“Are you alright?” Jeanne asks. He looks rather cornered.

“Fine, just fine,” he says, looking about wildly.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing.” Albin sighs, slumping a little. “Have you talked to Eulalie?”

“Sort of,” Jeanne says slowly. “She just said something about tea.”

Albin looks positively glum at this. “Oh.”

“What’s all this about?” Jeanne asks, dropping down to sit next to him.

“Well,” Albin hedges, “it’s just tea, after all.”

“Does that mean I can go back into the garden?” Jeanne asks, trying not to sound too eager. Albin sighs, looking rather as if he’d like to escape into the garden himself.

“Jeanne?” Georges calls from below. Albin jumps, nearly setting Jeanne’s skirt on fire.

“Up here,” she calls, too busy jerking her skirt out of harm’s way to notice Albin is making frantic shushing motions.

“There you are,” Georges says looking at Jeanne. He narrows his eyes at Albin. “You.”

“It wasn’t my idea!” Albin exclaims.

“But you’ve gone along with it, haven’t you?”

“Will someone tell me what’s going on?” Jeanne breaks in, exasperated.

“That’s what I thought,” Georges says triumphantly.

“I was about to tell her!” Albin says.

“You weren’t.” Georges states flatly. “Now go away, I need to talk to Jeanne.”

Albin hops off speedily enough, tossing a whispered “Sorry, Jeanne,” on the way back down the stairs.

Georges waits a moment, looking at Jeanne, who raises an eyebrow.

“Eulalie’s gotten Isabeau to agree to come to tea,” he says bluntly. Jeanne is suddenly rather glad she’s sitting down.

“What? Why?” she asks. The question is possibly a little rude, but she hasn’t seen Isabeau since their confrontation in the west wing and she doesn’t particularly want to change that any time soon.

“It’s a bit of a heavy-handed approach,” Georges says with a pinched expression. “Not necessarily one I would choose. I gather I wasn’t meant to find out until afterwards.”

“I don’t think Isabeau likes me very much,” Jeanne tries. It’s true, and probably safer than ‘I have no interest in getting to know Isabeau any better than I already do.’

“Well, it’s not only up to her,” he says, rather ambiguously in Jeanne’s opinion. “Just,” Georges sighs, “just give her a chance, would you?”

Jeanne’s eyebrows shoot up. “I thought this wasn’t your approach?”

“Yes, well. It really would improve things for everyone if you two got on a little better, wouldn’t it?”

“Is this anything to do with the curse?” Jeanne says, watching Georges’ face closely. It’s a very small face, though, and if any flicker of emotion crosses it Jeanne can’t see it.

“Just go get ready,” Georges says. He’s gone before Jeanne can think of another question to ask.

Back in her room, Jeanne takes in her appearance with a sigh. A good wash will fix the dirt caked under her nails and the bird’s nest of her hair, but she’ll certainly need to change her dress. Perhaps she’ll need that hour after all.

“Oh, please let me do something elegant!” Dominique says from behind her.

“No ruffles,” Jeanne says firmly, grabbing the pitcher from her nightstand.

“I’m not promising anything,” Dominique sing-songs. Jeanne goes to wash up, concerned with the way this tea is rapidly spiraling out of her control.

—-

Isabeau has been combed and styled to within an inch of her life. She drew the line (read: barely escaped) from having little bows tied in her fur.

“It’s just Jeanne,” she grumbles. She doesn’t mean it as an insult particularly, just that Jeanne doesn’t seem the type to fuss over being fashionable and orderly. Or, well, as fashionable and orderly as a large animal attempting human dress can be. Eulalie seems to take it as an insult, if her hiss of annoyance is any indication.

“Jeanne deserves a lot better than you,” Eulalie says. Steam is starting to emanate from her spout. “You’ll be lucky if she settles.”

“I’m not arguing that,” Isabeau grumbles. She pokes at the loop of hair that’s been pinned and curled away from her face. Eulalie pours a bit of boiling water on her foot, and Isabeau yelps and leaps away from the mirror.

“You’ll ruin your hair!”

Isabeau rolls her eyes, but she’s not terribly eager to be scalded again so she holds her tongue. She sincerely doubts any of this is going to interest Jeanne in a whirlwind romance, but if it gets Eulalie to stop haranguing her for a few days it’s worth it.

Eulalie essentially herds her down to the sitting room, staying right on her heels so she can’t back up unless she wants to risk crushing her. Isabeau can’t tell if it makes things more or less awkward that Jeanne is already there. She’s wearing a truly nightmarish concoction of pink lace that has Dominique’s forays into couture written all over it.

 _At least there are cakes,_ Isabeau thinks gloomily as the two of them settle around the delicate tea table. They’re petit fours, of course, and look completely ridiculous in her massive paws, but Isabeau is hardly going to go through this rigamarole and then not eat.

She does attempt politeness (more because she’s certain Eulalie is watching through a crack in the door and that anything else will be severely punished than because she feels particularly polite) by offering Jeanne the plate before she takes any cakes. Jeanne takes two, and Isabeau shrugs and piles the rest onto her saucer.

She considers her obligation pretty much discharged at this point. She’s let Eulalie turn her into a specter of absolute ridiculousness, showed up more or less on time, and offered cakes. She did less at some of her mother’s balls. Jeanne, unfortunately, seems to think this coerced tea party requires small talk.

“So,” she starts bravely. Isabeau attempts to look intimidating but it apparently does not come off. “How was your afternoon?”

“Wet,” Isabeau says. “Yours?” Jeanne blinks at her.

“I was in the garden,” she says. Isabeau snorts, which causes a tiny wrinkle to appear on Jeanne’s forehead. Getting a reaction makes Isabeau feel perversely cheerful. Behaviors of Isabeau’s that have sent lesser men and women into screaming fits tend to garner little more than a blank countenance from Jeanne. Isabeau pursues her advantage.

“You’re always in the garden.”

“You’re always in the west wing.” It’s said so mildly that Isabeau doesn’t parse it at first. When she does, a low growl almost unconsciously starts in her chest. Jeanne just sips her tea.

“Well excuse me for leaving most of _my_ house at your disposal.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Isabeau bristles. Jeanne sips her tea again, and Isabeau fights the urge to upend the tea table. She might do it, if the damn china weren’t sentient.

“It seems more to me like you’re frightened of something,” Jeanne says.

“I’m not frightened of anything,” Isabeau snaps, claws ripping into the fabric covering the arms of her chair.

“Then what is the bell jar for?”

Isabeau nearly lays it all out on the table: the enchantress, the curse, the rose, Jeanne’s dubious fate as a potential spell breaker, but something about Jeanne’s expression tips her off. _I’m being baited,_ she realizes, wonderingly. It sets her back a little. Jeanne seems so passive most of the time, industriously at work in the garden. She doesn’t make waves in the house by demanding elaborate food or sigh about complaining of boredom. She doesn’t, save for the one attempt, try to break in on Isabeau or nose about where she isn’t wanted. It unnerves Isabeau, to realize the slow vines of Jeanne’s curiosity have been weaving their way into the very foundation of her house. It makes her sharper than she intended to be.

“What are _you_ for?” she snaps rudely. “Useless at home, so you’ve come to clutter up my garden with your half-hearted schemes that will fall to pieces once spring comes? You’re nothing but a distraction for my servants.” She ignores Jeanne going pale, and the tiny gasp coming from the half open door behind them, to push to her feet. She nearly upends the chair in her hurry to get out of the room, striding past Henri, Eulalie, and a collection of teacups without bothering to look at them.

This was an utterly, utterly foolish idea and she never should have indulged Eulalie.

—-

 _Well, that went considerably worse than anticipated,_ Jeanne thinks dully. Isabeau’s barb is hardly the worst thing Jeanne has ever thought about herself, or even had said to her face, objectively. Jeanne has long sought, and long failed to find, objectivity with regards to her own life.

The conversation is made rather more unpleasant by virtue of its being overheard by the whole castle, but Jeanne gives thanks for small favors. At least she is quick to master her own countenance, and is quite confident that her expression is much as it always is, by the arrival of the others on the scene.

Eulalie, several teacups, Henri, and what looks like four entire place settings skid into the room. This is bad enough, but then comes Albin (waving his arms about in distress) and Georges. Jeanne opens her mouth but Eulalie starts talking over her.

“The cheek of her! Jeanne, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me, putting you in a room with her!” Eulalie continues in a similar vein, with many threats to Isabeau’s creature comforts and imprecations on her lack of social graces.

Jeanne murmurs reassurances absentmindedly, but she’s too distracted by Georges’ expression to really focus on what Eulalie is saying. Georges looks stricken, clearly upset by Isabeau’s actions in a way that surprises Jeanne. Of course, they all look upset, but Georges generally seems impervious to the ups and downs of daily life in a way the others don’t.

Jeanne manages to calm Eulalie down and get her settled with only mild help from Denis (who judiciously uses a swear word which captures Eulalie’s attention for a full seven minutes) and Euphrasie (who intentionally sets the spoons off on their synchronized swimming routine three hours early, causing a positive swamp in the dining room that requires urgent attention). The rest go where the new and more interesting drama, in the form of Eulalie scolding the spoons, her daughter, and anyone else who dares cross her path, is, and Jeanne is free to interrogate Georges and a nervously hovering Albin.

“I’m honestly fine,” Jeanne starts carefully, trying to sound disinterested. “She’s said rude things before. I’m not going to go off in a huff and insist on having all my meals in bed, or anything like that.”

“Oh, Jeanne,” Albin practically wails. “We don’t deserve you!” Dealing with his partner’s dramatics steadies Georges a little.

“It will be alright,” he says, somehow managing to sound both comforting and superior. Albin calms slightly at this sign of normalcy. “Look, go sort out Henri. Eulalie doesn’t need him fomenting discontent among the napkins again. I’ll speak to Jeanne.”

“Tell Eulalie I’m sorry about tea,” Jeanne says with a sigh. Once Albin is gone, she turns to Georges with something approaching eagerness. “Are you going to explain what’s going on here?” _At long last?_ she adds to herself.

Georges grimaces. “It seems the time has come. Follow me, Jeanne.”

They end up in the portrait gallery, as it’s really the only place they can be certain no one will disturb them. It’s not the most comfortable room, especially not with the glares and sneers of Isabeau’s ancestors looking down on them, but it is private.

Once they’re settled, Jeanne propped against the wall and Georges making wide sweeps across the narrow hall, Georges seems reluctant to get started.

“You were going to explain?” Jeanne prompts, rather finished with subtlety and prodding for the day.

“I,” Georges hesitates, bracing himself, “I rather think this might be my fault.” Jeanne blinks at him, taken aback. Georges grimaces, jangling a couple of his keys impatiently. “Oh, not Isabeau being insufferable, she does that all on her own, but the fact that she even attempted this tea to begin with.”

“Oh?” Jeanne says, carefully expressionless. Georges looks at her.

“The curse has to do with Isabeau, you see.”

 _I’d gathered that much,_ Jeanne thinks acidly.

“You’ve seen the rose, and you know the bargain your father made.”

“Yes. I’m to stay here until the last petal falls.”

Georges bobs his head. “But no one has explained why,” he says.

“No,” Jeanne agrees.

“The idea is, Isabeau has for as long as the rose is in bloom to get you, or whoever is staying in the castle, to fall in love with her.” It’s something Jeanne should have anticipated, the sort of twist Madame d’Aulnoy would adore, but somehow she did not expect it in the slightest. Some measure of her astonishment must show on her face, because Georges continues to elaborate. “That was the subject of the curse, you see.”

“Her love life?” Jeanne asks, incredulously. “What a trivial thing to curse an entire castle over.”

Georges snorts. “Yes, well. Enchantresses tend to see their minor whims as much more important than upending the lives of anyone so trivial as servants. Isabeau must fall in love with someone, and earn their love in return, for the curse to break.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Jeanne asks, frustration shading into her voice at the impossible situation.

Georges sighs. “You know much more than any of the others have, Jeanne. You know about the rest of us, and about the level and complexity of the enchantment. You’ve even, if I’m not presuming too much, figured out much of how the magic of the garden works, and how it serves as a lure to draw people in.”

“So why not just tell me all of it?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Georges sighs. “Because they all think you’re the one who’s going to break the spell.” Dread pools into Jeanne’s stomach, and she strives to keep her face carefully blank. “Because the rest of them might think that pushing you and Isabeau together is enough to move things along.”

“And you?” Jeanne asks, her throat dry. “What do you think?”

“That’s the thing,” Georges whispers. “I was starting to think so, too. That you two could actually, properly get on. I didn’t want you to find out about the curse because I was hoping Isabeau,” Georges bites out the name, “would make an effort, for once.” He pivots angrily, swishing so quickly that a thimble and a pair of sewing scissors tangle into each other. “I foolishly told her that, even though I know how stubborn and willful she is.”

“Oh,” Jeanne says dully. She isn’t sure what more she can say. _It’s still not your fault that Isabeau is the way that she is, that the two of us could never ever be anything more than distant acquaintances? I’m sorry that there’s something in me that seems to provoke her, is unable to appease even with so many lives at stake?_

“Jeanne,” Georges says softly, breaking into her thoughts. “Please just be a little patient with her? Just for a little while. I’m not trying to excuse what she said,” Georges adds hastily, “but, just give her a chance to apologize.”

“Of course.” Jeanne feels remote, distant, like she’s floating up out of her body. She must be at least mildly convincing, though, because Georges looks relieved.

Jeanne isn’t entirely sure, later, how she gets through the rest of the conversation, up to her room, out of the painfully elegant tea dress and into a nightdress. The sun is barely down, but she doesn’t bother with supper or even ask for a tray to be sent to her room. She just puts out her candle and lies down in the dark, too terrified of being overheard to even cry properly.

—-

The mirror in the west wing is enchanted so that Isabeau can see anything she wishes in it. She need only speak a command, and the mirror will obey.

Generally, she keeps it covered when she isn’t using it. When she needs to use it, she will rip the covering away and speak as quickly as possible, letting the swirl of color as it slips out of and back into focus wash her reflection away. She doesn’t like to look at herself. The portraits of Isabeau have both been relegated to somewhere deep in the unused servants quarters. Any images of her family not already there have been relocated to the portrait gallery, where she can easily avoid them. The hollow eyes and disapproving sneers which used to follow her up and down the manor halls are all gone, and she can sometimes avoid thinking about her transformation for minutes together. She can avoid confronting the full reality of it completely, if she so desires.

This time, she forces herself to look. She leaves the mirror uncovered with no intention of using it to whisk her away to somewhere else, anywhere else.

It isn’t so much the ugliness of her transfigured shape she wishes to avoid. True, she used to be renowned as beautiful, and there are advantages to that which she misses. Beauty, though, was always a double edged sword. It led to assumptions and expectations that were frequently at odds with her own desires, particularly from her parents. What frustrates her the most about her own beastliness is the constant threat of it, the violence always simmering just under the surface. True, it makes it easier to drive away enemies, to keep anyone who might wish to harm her at a distance, but those people have long since gone. There is only those she loves left, and her too cruel and impatient to help them.

What stabs at Isabeau and keeps her sharp and angry is that weakness in her own self, that bending toward ease, that desire for pleasant soft things, for the lushness of velvet cushions and the high pinching tightness of not-breathing beautiful gowns, for the burst of juice on her tongue as she bites into a grape, for the softness of barely teased open flower petals, bereft of thorns. She longs for those creature comforts of her former life, for the ease that being rich and beautiful and well-liked gave her. She hates that she misses that life, she hates that this transformation has forced her to confront that it was nothing in her own character, after all, which gave it to her.

Who still loves her, when all that is stripped away? Would Albin and Georges even still be here, if the curse didn’t involve them too? They have each other, and Henri, and perhaps, after all, they’d all be happier elsewhere. What does Isabeau have?

What stabs at Isabeau and keeps her sharp and angry is that she would never have even noticed Jeanne, before. She isn’t pretty or high-born, she doesn’t have any of the laughing carelessness that Isabeau is drawn to, that led to her heart being smashed and abandoned over and over again. Jeanne, who feels like her last best chance at happiness. Jeanne, who is kind and patient and has the entire manor in love with her.

Isabeau can’t bear to prove that horrid old witch right, to admit that there was something in her lacking, so she digs out those holes in her own character deeper and firmer.

She snarls at her reflection, tempted to smash the mirror and rid herself of it forever. The logic that it would be a waste, and only satisfy her for a moment, does not alleviate her anger any. She hates it all: the way her temper, which has always simmered close to boiling, does so much more damage now, the way no one looks past the surface to bother to get to know her, the fear that even if they did, she’s no more beautiful inside than she is out.

Isabeau surges forward, scrabbling for the thick black velvet and throwing it over the surface of the mirror. Her stomach still feels tight and hot and high in her body, but the feeling of sickness disappeared a little as soon as the direct evidence of the curse is out of sight.

The cold night air beckons her out onto the balcony, and Isabeau leans against the sturdy marble balustrade to look out across the dark forest. A trickle of unease curls down her spine as outside, a chorus of wolves howl at the moon.

Surely, Jeanne will forgive her for her outburst? She hardly thinks the other woman will love her after all the nasty impatient things she’s said, but she never expected that to begin with. It would be better for everyone if the two of them could get along. Isabeau resolves to apologize the next day, to be a little more patient. If she can only-

Her thoughts abruptly cut off as she hears the door to the west wing fly open. She’s barely had time to turn when Albin is rushing out into the third room.

“Jeanne,” he says, and Isabeau goes cold at the panic in his voice, “she’s gone!”

The feeling of dread deep in her stomach blossoms into full flower as Isabeau runs full-tilt back into the house.


	2. Act Two

Jeanne doesn't sleep for the first time since her first night in the castle. She can't stop thinking about what Georges said. Georges, who is the most cautious and least optimistic of the castle’s inhabitants. The others must be practically hearing wedding bells.

Jeanne turns over, sighing as she reshapes her pillow. It doesn't make much of a difference. The bed is as comfortable and luxurious as it always is. The problem isn't with the accommodations. In the corner, Dominique’s deep, even breathing tries to lure Jeanne into the usual quiet sense of peace she feels in this room at night. It doesn’t work, her mind too anxious and disturbed to relax.

Jeanne gets up and pulls the thick velvet curtain to the side, looking out on the moonlit grounds. It's peaceful, and starting to look familiar, and that, more than anything else, terrifies her.

_Perhaps it's better to leave now, before they start to really hope._

The thought almost startles her. She hadn't been aware of it brewing until it sprang, fully formed, to the front of her thoughts. She feels like she’s slipped out of time and left her stomach behind, for an instant, held suspended in the moment.

Does she want to leave? Not particularly. She loves the peace of this place: the garden, Georges and Albin and Eulalie and everyone else, the comfortable fire-warmed sitting room that’s always so cheery when she comes in on gloomy days. No one here thinks her odd, or silly, or too abstracted. Well, perhaps Isabeau does, but Isabeau is content enough to leave her alone. Or, she was.

Jeanne drops back into the present with a heavy thud. That is the real dilemma, isn’t it? Isabeau feels no need to get to know her, has already decided she doesn’t like Jeanne, and Jeanne isn’t bothered at all. It isn’t very firm a foundation for romance, or love. Jeanne sighs, propping her elbows on the windowsill and her chin in her hands.

She never wanted to get married, particularly. The idea of going from a petulant, domineering father to a petulant, domineering husband held no appeal for Jeanne. What she really wants, has always wanted, is freedom. This place is the closest she’s ever come. She has a garden, and friends, and leisure, and there’s no need to please anyone except herself. At least, she hadn’t thought so.

This revelation of the curse makes her feel as if she’s been living on borrowed time, failing the lot of them without even knowing it. The last thing she wants is to end up married to someone like Isabeau, who doesn’t care what Jeanne wants or what will make her happy.

Staying, apparently, means committing to at least trying to get along with Isabeau, though. She can’t continue to give everyone false hope that she might be the one to break the spell, when she knows there’s no way that could be. Isabeau may have hidden depths, Jeanne is certain that being cursed to be a beast and having the weight of the entire castle resting on her shoulders would make anyone a little cranky, but Jeanne has no reason to expect Isabeau will plumb them for her sake. Isabeau has made it clear from the beginning that she has no interest in getting to know Jeanne, and Jeanne can’t continue to hang around the castle in the hope that that will change.

There isn't much to pack. She's never put on any of the jewelry, or even really looked at it other than her initial cursory exploration. The vases of flowers won't travel well, although she runs a wistful hand down the side or her favorite: Diana and her huntresses in relief on the side. The clothes are, for the most part, much too fine for her ordinary life. She does take the sturdy gardening clothes and gloves that have magically appeared in the past week. She feels a little guilty, but reasons that they were created specifically for her and no one else has any possible use for them.

Other than that....Jeanne glances around her home of the past weeks. It has grown quickly into a favored sanctuary, a place of rest and rejuvenation in a way her room at home never was. She will miss this castle, with its wide, sweeping view of the sea, its (mostly) kind inhabitants, the pleasant leisure of days all her own. Most of all, though, she will miss the garden.

Jeanne slowly opens her door, the small pack of clothes rolled up and tied in a thin bedsheet slung over her shoulder. No one seems to be about, and the castle is dark and vast and silent around her. Jeanne closes her door, _the_ door, she corrects herself mentally, carefully and pads down the long hall.

She’s navigated the path from her room out of the castle enough times that she can do it in the dark, but she goes slowly and carefully just in case. The last thing she needs is for a wrinkle in a carpet to trip her or for a misremembered hallway to send her clanking into a suit of armor. Jeanne tenses as she approaches the intersection of several corridors and perceives a flickering light coming from one of them. She peers around the corner as slowly as she can, frantically thinking of potential excuses should it be Albin, but slumps in relief as she gets a look down the hall.

It’s just the dying fire from the upstairs sitting room. Only that morning, it seems like a lifetime ago now, Jeanne was helping Eulalie sort out a particularly grumpy desk who had gotten bored and spewed papers and ink all over the sitting room.

Jeanne reaches the head of the stairs, slipping her shoes off to go quietly down the bare marble steps. She creeps out the side door, closing it carefully behind her. It’s much smaller and quieter than the front door, and has the additional advantage of bringing her directly out into the garden.

It’s fully dark outside, but the moon is waxing and bright in the sky overhead. Jeanne runs her hands over all the plants, giving them a final burst of energy she can only hope will sustain them through the coming winter. Perhaps Isabeau is right, and her time here has essentially amounted to nothing. She hopes, though, that there has been at least the seed of something good planted. Something that may or may not bloom in her absence, but something that couldn’t have existed without her.

“Goodbye,” Jeanne whispers, giving the bark of an apple tree one last lingering caress.

She slips around the side of the house, toward the stables. She’s never seen him, but she knows there’s a horse there. The old groom, currently an umbrella stand in the front hall, hops past her in the gardens sometimes on the way to make sure Magnifique, the horse, is fed and watered and let out for exercise.

Sure enough, she hears an inquiring whicker as she lets herself into the stable.

“Hello,” she says quietly, approaching the horse slowly. He’s absolutely enormous, but seems peaceful enough. He nibbles affectionately at her hair as she saddles him, and stands quietly in the yard by the block when she leads him out. She climbs up, throwing a leg over the horse and adjusting her pack of clothes once she’s seated securely.

She keeps Magnifique at a walk until they’re out of the castle grounds and well into the forest. Snow starts to drift down slowly, and Jeanne shivers and pulls the long sleeves of her tunic down over her hands. She should have taken a cloak, but was so focused on evading discovery that she didn’t think to get one from the cloak room downstairs.

A low mournful howl sounds in the depths of the forest, and Jeanne’s hands tighten on the reins. Perhaps this was foolish. She could go back, leave during the day time. Before she can make a decision, she hears a low rippling growl, and a wolf emerges from the trees onto the path ahead. Jeanne tugs on the reins sharply, but Magnifique has already come to a stop and is tossing his head in fear.

Three more wolves emerge from the trees, and when Jeanne tries to turn the horse she sees two more behind her. They’re closing in on her quickly, and Jeanne yanks the reins so Magnifique steps off the path and charges into the forest, away from the wolves.

His hooves pound the earth, and Jeanne hangs on for dear life as they charge around the trees. A branch nearly slams into her head; she ducks just in time. One of the wolves leaps at Magnifique’s side, and the horse turns and charges in the other direction.

She’s just starting to think they’ll manage to outrun them when a wolf suddenly leaps in front of them. Magnifique rears, and Jeanne starts to slip off his back. She scrambles for the reins, managing to break her own fall somewhat but still landing on the ground hard. The reins, released suddenly, fly up and tangle in a tree branch overhead. The wolves surround them on all sides, and fear crawls up Jeanne’s throat as they approach. She grabs a broken branch off the ground, batting one of the wolves away as two others snap at Magnifique’s heels. He kicks out behind him, scattering them briefly.

Jaws close around the branch she’s holding. The wolf jerks his head and shatters it, and Jeanne swallows hard, fear sour in the back of her throat. There is nothing between her and the wolves, now.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Isabeau surges between Jeanne and the circling wolves, baring her teeth at them in a snarl. When they don’t back off, she opens her mouth and roars, dropping into a crouch in front of Jeanne.

Three of them charge at Isabeau, and Jeanne backs up away from the fray. She tries to calm Magnifique, to untangle him from the tree, but he’s still tossing his head in panic and she’s worried he’ll kick out in fear and accidentally hit her.

There are five of them on Isabeau now, and Jeanne presses her hands over her mouth. She doesn’t know what to do, frozen in inaction as the wolves tear at Isabeau’s cloak and one of them snaps its jaws closed unnervingly close to her throat.

Isabeau rears back, finally succeeding in flinging one of the wolves off her back. It flies back and slams against a tree, and the ground shudders under Jeanne’s feet. She glances frantically around for some kind of improvised weapon, but fortunately the other wolves seem cowed by the injury to their pack mate. They tuck their ears back, yipping, and flee back into the forest. The one that hit the tree gets slowly to its feet and Jeanne backs away, toward Isabeau.

Isabeau lays one paw gently on her shoulder, low growl comforting and deep at Jeanne’s back. The injured wolf doesn’t try to attack though, it just slinks off after the others. Jeanne breathes a sigh of relief, turning to look at Isabeau.

Their eyes lock for one brief moment. Jeanne takes a shaky breath, trying to think of what to say, what to do. Before she can utter so much as a syllable, though, Isabeau whimpers and pitches to the side, collapsing full length into the snow.

Magnifique whinnies in distress, and Jeanne looks helplessly between the two of them. She has no idea how to get Isabeau back to the castle. She can hardly leave her here, especially after she was injured protecting Jeanne. She hovers over Isabeau indecisively, until the horse behind her becomes even more insistent.

“Please let this work,” Jeanne mutters, as she carefully unloops Magnifique’s reigns and starts slowly leading the horse over to Isabeau’s prone form. She is worried the horse will panic again, Isabeau looks rather like a predator at the moment, after all, but he seems to recognize her. He kneels down next to Isabeau readily enough, and stays still while Jeanne pushes her body onto the horse’s back.

She unknots the pack of clothes, twisted up in the confrontation but still intact, and uses some of the longer more substantial ones to tie Isabeau to the saddle and bridle so she doesn’t slip off.

“You can stand now,” Jeanne says, feeling a bit foolish talking to a horse, “but slowly, yeah?”

He seems to understand her, or perhaps instinctively know how to approach the situation. Magnifique stands. For one heart-stopping moment Jeanne thinks Isabeau is going to slide off, but she just slips a little and Jeanne manages to balance her in the saddle.

“We’re up!” Jeanne says. “Good horse!” Magnifique gives her a regal look that reminds Jeanne startlingly of Georges.

Slowly, they limp their way back to the castle. Jeanne is shivering and wet, and aching all over from the cold by the time they get back. Isabeau has started to come around a bit, and she dismounts from the horse herself, only stumbling a little. Jeanne helps her into the front hall, where (she groans internally) what looks like half the castle is congregated.

“Give them space,” Georges barks out, sweeping to the front. “Jeanne, take her into the parlor. I’ve lit a fire in there and Eulalie will be in with hot water in a minute. Honestly, Gérôme, did you invite the entire china cabinet? You should all be in bed. And Henri, don’t think I don’t see you skulking in the curtains!”

Jeanne gets Isabeau into the parlor, closing the door behind them and shutting out the sound of Georges roundly scolding the spoons.

Isabeau is groggy, and she collapses back into the large chair in front of the fireplace with a groan. Eulalie and Albin slip in through the parlor door, bringing a tray with a basin of hot water and several clean cloths. Jeanne wets one of the cloths, wringing it out carefully, then turns to apply it to the cut on Isabeau’s forearm.

“Don’t do that!” Jeanne says, startled into speech by the way Isabeau is hunched over the cut and licking it. Isabeau growls at her, which Jeanne generously ignores.

“I’m fine,” Isabeau grumbles, as Jeanne reaches out to press the cloth down. “I’m- OUCH!” Isabeau yowls, and Jeanne hears the clatter of either Albin or Eulalie topping over behind her.

“Stop fussing, I’ve got to get the cut clean.”

“It’s fine,” Isabeau hisses, trying to pull her arm away. Jeanne digs her nails into Isabeau’s arm and Isabeau whimpers and subsides.

“It will get infected. Now hold still.”

“It would be fine if you hadn’t gone rushing off in the middle of the night,” Isabeau complains. Jeanne presses a little harder than strictly necessary on the cut.

“And I suppose you’d have sent me merrily on my way if I’d waited till morning?” Jeanne doesn’t bother to hide her sarcasm. Isabeau doesn’t reply.

She quickly salves and bandages the wound while Isabeau is sulking. At first, Jeanne is too irritated to pay much attention, but she slowly notices that Isabeau’s face is twisted in pain. With an internal sigh, she breaks the silence.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, “for saving my life.”

Isabeau looks at her briefly, then away.

“You’re welcome.” Her reply is brief, but the lines of her face ease a little, and Jeanne feels a little bit of the tension bleed out of her own shoulders.

She doesn’t know how to feel about the events of the night, or being back in the castle, but perhaps this will at least serve as a crack in the ice between her and Isabeau. Maybe, just maybe, things will be less difficult, now.

—-

Antoine Mercier walks into the apothecary shop several towns over. He has taken great care to insure that nothing about him is remarkable or recognizable, even going to the lengths of forgoing his heavy signet ring and renting a carriage.

“How can I assist you?” the old man behind the counter asks.

“Oh, I hope you can help,” Mercier says, with an utterly false sweetness. “It’s my poor great-aunt, you see. She’s not in her right mind, has all kinds of fits. The doctors are hopeless,” he pauses strategically, waiting for the appropriate sympathetic noises to be made. “I need something to…help her sleep,” he says, laying heavy emphasis on the words. “Just a little calming draught, you understand.”

“Of course,” the apothecary says. “So sad, when the mind starts to go. I think I have just the thing.”

“Wonderful,” Mercier says, careful not to sound too eager. “There’s only one other thing. I’m afraid she’s dreadfully stubborn, refuses to take medicines of any kind, you know the type.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” the apothecary says confidently. “I can mix you up something that she won’t be able to taste. Just mix it into her tea, and she’ll be sleeping peacefully by the time you’ve tidied up the dishes.”

“I had a good feeling about this shop,” Mercier says warmly, as if he hadn’t enquired in six different towns to find the shop with the seediest reputation and the least scrupulous attendants. “Sweet Tante Berthe will finally get the rest she needs.”

“There’s only one thing,” the apothecary says, a little hesitantly. “This particular mixture, it’s of my own concoction, you know,” he brags. Mercier forces his face to look impressed, rather than impatient. “It has a few unintended effects.”

“Nothing too dreadful I hope,” Mercier says, as if he isn’t hoping for precisely that.

“No, of course not,” the apothecary says quickly. “Just a touch of fever, some hair loss, only occasionally, and the odd fainting spell.”

“Oh, well if it’s such a help as you’ve promised me,” Mercier says confidingly, “I’m sure it will be worth all the trouble.”

The apothecary grins as he names his price. Mercier, generally the most miserly of gentlemen, passes the gold over gladly.

—-

By now, winter has truly arrived and it’s too snowy outside for Jeanne to do much of anything in the garden. She’s confined to the house, not eager to risk leaving again after the incident with the wolves, and expecting a long interval of boredom.

Only two days after her return, though, she comes down to breakfast to find Isabeau at the other end of the table.

“Oh,” she says, hesitating at the door. She almost offers to go back and eat in her room, but Isabeau looks expectant rather than annoyed. Jeanne slowly makes her way over to the table. The chair pulls itself out for her politely, and Jeanne sits.

She can’t think of anything that doesn’t sound either sarcastic or insincere to say, so she just stares into her porridge for a bit. Isabeau clears her throat, and Jeanne looks up.

“I thought you might want to go for a walk,” Isabeau says. Jeanne doesn’t want to reject the offered olive branch, but,

“It’s snowing,” she says hesitantly. Isabeau awkwardly gestures to the fire in the corner of the room. Jeanne turns to see a fur-lined cloak warming on a chair nearby. She makes a snap decision. “I would love to go for a walk.”

She does feel better once they’re out of doors, even though it’s quite cold. She’s been working outside for most of the day until recently, after all. Jeanne expects it to be awkward, but the silence that settles between the two of them feels strangely comfortable. Isabeau breaks it occasionally, to point out a particularly old tree and tell her about its history, or to tell her about which walks are nicest in which seasons. Jeanne listens for the most part, until Isabeau stops under an elegant veranda and turns to her.

“I want to apologize for my behavior,” she says, formally.

“Oh, there’s no need,” Jeanne says, a bit flustered. She looks out over the grounds.

“Well,” Isabeau says, leaning her elbows on the railing next to Jeanne, “if staying here was so unpleasant you felt the need to flee in the dead of night, I’d say I probably have something to apologize for. Unless you left because Eulalie’s children make simply appalling tea cups and you’re dying without your morning tea.”

Jeanne smiles a little at that, turning her face slightly toward Isabeau.

“I will say you haven’t made things precisely easy for me,” she says carefully. “But honestly, it wasn’t you who made me leave. It was Georges.”

“Because he told you about the curse?” Isabeau says. She doesn’t sound angry or upset, but it isn’t precisely a question, either.

Jeanne sighs. “They’re getting their hopes up,” she says quietly. “I don’t…I can’t bear to disappoint all of them.”

“Rather like I’ve done, you mean?”

Jeanne turns, she’s not sure whether to object or agree, but Isabeau is smiling ruefully at her. “Well,” Jeanne sighs. “Look, I can’t imagine it’s been exactly easy, the position that you’re in. It’s hardly your fault the curse included the entire castle.”

“No, it’s not particularly easy,” Isabeau says frankly. Jeanne starts to look away, but Isabeau clears her throat and Jeanne looks back at her. “Look. Can we call a truce? You’re a decent person, Jeanne, and everyone likes you here. I just,” Isabeau’s shoulders ripple in a surprisingly graceful shrug, “I just want us to all get along, as best we can. I’m tired of being shut up alone in the west wing.”

Jeanne looks at her assessingly. Isabeau squirms a little under her appraisal but doesn’t look away. “I’m not going to put up with you snapping at me, or making nasty comments about my interests.”

Isabeau winces. “I won’t. I promise. Well, about the nasty comments, anyway. I’m rather prone to snappishness, I’m afraid.”

“That’s a terribly half-hearted apology,” Jeanne says with a little smile.

“You’re welcome to snap back,” Isabeau grins. “I might even like you better if you do.”

“I have better things to do than make you like me,” Jeanne says. Isabeau throws back her head and laughs.

—-

“I can’t believe they do this every meal,” Isabeau says, at supper a few nights later. Jeanne tucks a smile behind her napkin, who giggles in excitement.

“I think they’ve been rather bored,” she says, politely applauding as the plates take their first course….well they aren’t entirely capable of bowing but the sentiment ‘applause now please’ is amply communicated.

“How do you eat anything,” Isabeau grumbles, as a pie whisks out of her reach.

“It’s an exercise in dexterity,” Jeanne says, managing to get a forkful of soufflé as it dances by.

“Do you really have to do this any time you want any food?” Isabeau looks appalled. “No wonder you fled in the night.”

“Will you stop calling it fleeing in the night,” Jeanne complains, missing a dish of the infamous (surprisingly delicious) grey stuff by a scant centimeter. “And no, the whirling food generally settled down a few days after I arrived. They’re just excited to show off again, with you here.”

“I’d rather have supper,” Isabeau grumbles. Jeanne swats gently at her arm.

“Be nice!” she hisses, as the spoons start up a kick line. Jeanne is too busy smiling at the spoons politely to notice Isabeau looking at her a bit wistfully.

After dinner (and several encores greeted with enthusiasm from Jeanne and light mockery with an edge of fondness from Isabeau), they adjoin to the drawing room, where the fire is already crackling merrily.

“What do you generally do in the evenings?” Isabeau asks, after they’re settled in front of the fire.

“Here? Or at home?”

“At home, I assume you gossip with other young ladies about gentlemen and ball gowns. Isn’t that what everyone does?” Isabeau says it sarcastically, but there’s a real edge of curiosity underlaying her tone.

“I’m afraid you have me at rather above my station,” Jeanne says, raising an eyebrow.

“No ball gowns?”

“No dinner parties at all. My father doesn’t like to entertain.”

Isabeau tilts her head curiously. “Do you?”

Jeanne looks a bit bemused. “I never really thought about it. I suppose not. I tend to prefer my books to other people. Well,” she amends, “I like talking to everyone here.”

_Including me?_ Isabeau wonders, but is too afraid of the answer to ask.

“I suppose we could marshal up enough for a game of bassette, should you so desire.”

Jeanne laughs. “You’ve stepped upwards rather than downwards there.”

“Not eager to lose large sums of money?”

“Do you think me rich?” Jeanne asks drily.

“Oh, incredibly.”

Jeanne snorts. “I’m afraid you are much mistaken there.”

Isabeau hums a little. “I don’t know. Rich in charm. Rich in wit. Rich in kindness. There are meaner currencies.”

Jeanne gives her an odd look. “I can’t tell if you’re mocking me or not.”

This, somewhat abruptly, jerks Isabeau back to reality. Is she really flirting with Jeanne?

“Just trying to compliment you,” Isabeau says lightly, before changing the subject to the first thing that she can think of.

Unfortunately, her mind is not so easily diverted, and it returns to its former course as soon as she and Jeanne part for the evening. It is perhaps unsurprising that being comfortable again has led her to relapse naturally into her old ways of conversation. Jeanne is that most coveted of conversational partners: quick and clever, but reserved enough that Isabeau feels that she has earned every laugh, every confidence.

But, Jeanne is not a bored rich merchant’s daughter, ready enough to dabble with a beautiful heiress and ready enough to leave her, and Isabeau is no longer beautiful. She no longer has the grace that granted her, the ability to toss a few half-hearted complements and a bit of social commentary and pass it off as charisma and vivacity.

The worst of it is, she genuinely wants Jeanne to like her. Not solely because of the curse, or because she wants to prove that there is something in her worth loving, but because she likes Jeanne. She likes how kind she is, and how that kindness does not blunt her edges but sharpens them. She likes that Jeanne is utterly herself, settled and rooted in a way that Isabeau envies. She likes that there is something in Jeanne that calls to her own wildness like the moon calls to the sea. She cannot quite define it, not yet, and that pulls her closer and closer like Jeanne is a finely-printed text that she’s desperate to read.

It is something, she thinks, in her utter indifference toward pretension, and all the grasping nasty social graces Isabeau’s mother attempted to drive into her. It is something in the way Jeanne always smells of the outdoors: the salt-spray of the sea and the earth caked under her nails. The snow melting in her hair and the careless way she dresses, too eager to be in the garden, or reading her book, or talking to Albin and Georges, to bother overmuch with clothing.

Too restless to sleep, Isabeau wanders down the path to the shoreline. Isabeau has always has loved the sea, and craved it. She misses the feel of the water on her human skin, thin and vulnerable, but even as large and as terrifying as she is now the sea is big enough to hold her.

It’s too late to swim, but Isabeau wades out a little anyway, claws digging for purchase in the loose sand. She hates almost everything about this house, did even before the curse, save this one, irreplaceable virtue: its proximity to the sea. Something about the water, too vast and audacious to ever be shut up in a garden or enclosed in the walls of the house, always running somewhere else, fascinates her. She loves the salt recklessness of it, the waves buffeting away the slow creeping poison of safety.

Reckless, her mother always called her, and too wild. Isn’t that why she was cursed, after all? Too enamored of her own wildness to look beyond that?

Isabeau had always assumed trying to break the curse, even just so much as to make friends with one of her unwilling captives, would involve a great deal of personality contortion on her own part. She is not beautiful, therefore she must be agreeable, and patient, and polite, and all the other things wives are supposed to be, things she never quite got the hang. The curse has not been particularly more effective as a goad, in this respect, than any of the many things her mother tried.

Jeanne does not seem particularly interested in politeness, or agreeableness, at least not in the sense that such virtues were taught to Isabeau. She simply wants respect, and relative peace, and grants them in the quantity that they are given.

It has opened a yawning door in Isabeau that she does not quite know how to close again. In Jeanne, she glimpses both kinds of freedom. Freedom from the curse, and, perhaps more precious, freedom to remain herself. It feels impossible, and dangerous, and she wants it so badly it tastes like salt on her tongue.

Isabeau wades a little farther into the water, planting her feet and letting it sway her. She rests her front paws on the surface, calm now, and watches the reflection of the moon, distorted by the gentle motion of the waves. She can almost see her own face, but all the fear and ugliness of it are, for now, gently swallowed up in darkness.

—-

Jeanne does not give her trust easily. Since her mother passed out of her life like warm sunshine leaving the face of the earth, she has struggled to find anyone with the patience to get to know her. She likes M. Comtois, but they’re hardly intimate friends. The rest of the townspeople, including her father, treat her with indifference or irritation. Well, except Mercier, but Jeanne does not consider his brand of insidious politeness to be an improvement over indifference.

Isabeau is not particularly patient, or trustworthy, and yet Jeanne finds herself enjoying their time together. Something in their shared ugliness, perhaps, the way they both dwell on the margins of ordinary life. Isabeau is unlike anyone Jeanne has ever met. She pushes back, a little, the utter loneliness of being alive.

“You’ve gone somewhere else again,” Isabeau says gently, pulling Jeanne back to the breakfast table.

“Sorry,” Jeanne starts, but Isabeau holds up a hand.

“I hate to interrupt,” she says with a smile, “but please don’t apologize. I’m the one being rude and breaking in on your thoughts.”

Jeanne looks at her curiously. It frustrates most people, her tendency to drift off mid-conversation, to get distracted by the eighteen spinning worlds constantly whirling about her own mind. Isabeau doesn’t seem irritated, though. She simply passes Jeanne the dish of eggs and then looks out the window. Jeanne still feels the need to explain.

“I was just thinking,” she says, and Isabeau looks at her inquiringly. “I don’t get on very well, with most people. They don’t…” this feels rather pathetic to say, but what Jeanne likes about this little excursion from reality is the chance to be utterly herself. She and Isabeau are stuck together, and while it’s in both of their interests to get along, neither feels any particular need to prevaricate or pretend to be endowed with more social graces than they actually are. Between the curse and the confrontations and the wolves, they’ve moved past that. “People don’t like me,” Jeanne says bluntly. “I read too much, and get lost in my thoughts, and spend too much time in the garden for the daughter of a well-to-do craftsman.”

“And I have fangs and claws, and shed a great deal,” Isabeau says, grinning, “and that was all before the transformation.” Jeanne laughs, relaxing a little into her chair. “What would you like to do today?” Isabeau asks.

Jeanne does not trust easily, but there is something in the exquisite torment of paper-cuts intimacy, the closeness of having seen each other at the ugliest and continuing on in spite of that, because of that. It stings, being looked at by someone who knows all of her secrets and her anger and her bitter moods and likes her anyway. It stings and it pulls her even closer with the desire to keep feeling that ache.

“Honestly,” Jeanne says, with a little sigh of desire, “I feel rather like a good book.”

“Your fairy tales?” Isabeau asks. Jeanne’s surprise must show on her face because Isabeau looks slightly embarrassed. “Georges mentioned. My apologies; I shouldn’t have presumed.”

“Have you read them?”

“Ah,” Isabeau looks slightly taken aback. “Well, yes. Or, reading is a bit of a challenge with these,” she says, wriggling her thick fingers and sharp claws, “but sometimes Georges reads me what he’s reading. Or Albin.” Isabeau pauses.

“That sounds wonderful.” Jeanne looks down at her place setting. “My mother used to read aloud to me.”

Isabeau clears her throat, pushing her chair back. “Come with me.”

Jeanne looks up, a little startled, as Isabeau offers her a hand to help her up from the table. “Oh. All right.”

“What is this?” Jeanne asks, as Isabeau leads her to a broad set of double doors she hasn’t seen before.

“It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“Well, then next time I’ll warn you in advance.” Isabeau smiles disarmingly at her. “Close your eyes.”

“If this is something unpleasant I won’t speak to you for several days,” Jeanne threatens, closing her eyes.

Isabeau laughs. “I will readily submit to such a punishment if you find this unpleasant, but I do not think it will be necessary.”

Jeanne closes her eyes. She hears the door open, and feels Isabeau’s paw gently brush her hand a moment later. She turns her palm up, letting Isabeau grasp her hand to lead her forward.

“Am I going to trip over anything?” Jeanne asks suspiciously, clutching Isabeau a little tighter. At least Isabeau is sturdy enough to catch her if she should fall.

“No,” Isabeau’s voice is light with amusement, which does not help Jeanne’s confidence. “Hold still a bit. Wait here.”

“All right,” Jeanne says doubtfully. She hears Isabeau striding away, nails clicking on the wooden floor, and then the sound of curtains being pulled back as light spills across her closed eyelids. “Can I open my eyes?”

“Just a second,” Isabeau calls. There’s a bit more rustling, and then stillness. “Now you can.”

Slowly, Jeanne opens her eyes. She can’t help the gasp she lets out at the sight.

A massive library is spread out before her. Almost automatically, she tilts her head back to try and see the extent of it. The ceilings are so high she can barely see the design carved into them, it’s just a blur of tiny curlicues and fleur-de-lis. The windows run from the floor to the ceiling, and the sunbeams pouring in from them highlight the dust dancing through the room. She breathes in, closing her eyes again for a moment to take in the smell, the feel of dust and light in her lungs.

There are several levels of small walks, staggered every six or seven shelves, and three moveable ladders. Jeanne has never seen this many books, can hardly comprehend the scope of it all. M. Comtois’ shop, huge to a girl with only one small shelf of books, would fit into this room ten times over.

“Do you like it?” Isabeau asks, pulling Jeanne’s attention back over to where Isabeau is standing awkwardly a few feet away.

“Oh, yes,” Jeanne sighs, drifting over to the nearest shelf. She runs a hand down the long row of titles, fingers curling over the tooled leather of a particularly beautiful volume. She isn’t ready to settle on a single book just yet, though. She wanders down the row, caressing the books, pulling the odd one out to feel its weight in her hands. She feels an almost hunger-like ache in the pit of her stomach, a craving for the cool luxury of slipping between the crisp pages of a new book, just cut. Pulling a well-thumbed green volume from the shelf, she opens it gently and holds it on both palms. She leans in, breathing the paper-sap tang it makes in the air, as familiar to her as the smell of earth, necessary as blood.

The scent of books makes her head swim. So thin and weak like hope or winter stew, so little compared to the richness of dirt, and yet somehow overpowering. It dives through her like a wild bird, the dipping swirling undulations of word after word. They press into her like flat wide palm-stones, like the horizon rushing into the sea, as her eyes take in title after title. The books call to her like sirens, like the long awaited loosening of a corset, belt, the weight of tools laid down. It feels like the scream of blissful pain that sings along the tightness in her back and shoulders after a long hard day in the garden, the dip where her arm swings too loose from her shoulder bone. It aches in her, the desire to fall down and down and down into book after book.

Behind her, Isabeau smiles and takes care of lighting the fire. Jeanne doesn’t notice, not even when she wanders over to a chair, already five pages into a novel. She doesn’t notice until the end of the book, after the light has started to go and the fire has burned itself out, and Isabeau has fallen fast asleep in the chair across from her.

—-

Over the next week, Isabeau watches Jeanne discover the library, a place long-neglected but once much loved. She expected the twisted pleasure of laying the collective efforts of generations of d’Argents at the feet of a peasant girl. She also feels a curious wistful longing that she did not anticipate. It’s addictive, watching Jeanne be fascinated by something, utterly absorbed. Isabeau finds herself wishing she were the subject of that intensity of focus, that almost palpable adoration. For now, she settles for watching Jeanne be simply, blissfully, happy.

The cut on her arm has healed enough that she no longer needs a bandage, but Isabeau skims her fingers gently over the place where it lay, thinking of Jeanne tending to her wound. Such a simple conversation it had been, after all: a thank you, and Isabeau’s acceptance of the thanks. It had served as a turning point, though, a softening between them. 

Isabeau thinks about the swinging magnet-repulsion of the tide, how it manifests between people. There is another being close by in her living space, and they continue a sort of bumpy striving along forward, together. In some ways, the ease of it frightens Isabeau. How accommodating she finds herself these days. Not the forced, grimacing dance of, well. Isabeau would never call herself afraid, precisely, but there are things she did and allowed because they are expected of a girl, even one of her rank and position. Sometimes, especially one of her rank and position.

The closer she grew to womanhood, the more she hated and resented those demands: to smile, to excuse rudeness, to be pinched and prodded and trod on and then to say thank you. It made her into something sharp, guarded by thorns. It was safer, a guard against those who would destroy her for their own pleasure.

Has she lost so much worth saving in the filings of discarded bits of armor, dropped piecemeal as they’re worn away by Jeanne’s gentle kindness? Perhaps not. Still, it feels like a terrible sacrifice, risking the small certainty of loneliness on the gamble of happiness, the wild-sharp feeling of tumbling. Of leaping, sheltered by only the fragile bird-bone hope of being leapt with.

Jeanne sighs a little, biting her lip and smiling as she turns a page, and it catches Isabeau’s attention at once.

The snap of their lives aligning feels like fresh-baked bread, like wild honeycomb, like the press of fingers against her spine, barely remembered. That the two of them, with all their aches and longings, can find a little peace and happiness, even if just until the last petal falls, feels miraculous as spring to Isabeau. The thread of days spins out of her like it’s pulling something deep from in her soul, like raw ore, messy and rough.

Like something mined from the deep, Isabeau lets happiness root and shadow her, pulling her down and down into the chair by the fire. She drifts off to sleep, thinking about Jeanne when autumn comes, of the sharp hard smack of a knife carving up apple slices, and the crisp softness of eating them.

—-

Albin, Georges, and Eulalie (trailed by an eager Henri and Denis) peek in through the open library door.

“She’s just reading,” Eulalie mutters in disappointment.

“What did you expect them to be doing in a library?” Georges asks, amused. Eulalie turns slightly pink and looks at the children.

“In any case, it seems to have gone off well,” Albin says excitedly. “They’ve been there practically all day for nearly a week!”

“Yes,” Georges says. He looks a little nervously at his husband. “We shouldn’t get our expectations run away with us just yet,” sounding as though he needs to convince himself, as much as the others.

“Expectations for what?” Denis asks.

Eulalie shushes him. “Not so loud!”

“Expectations for what?” Denis repeats, more quietly this time.

“Never you mind,” Eulalie says. “It’s time you were both in bed.”

“Ten more minutes?” Henri pleads, looking at Georges. He smiles and shakes his head.

“Eulalie has a point. It’s late.”

Henri and Denis grumble, but let their parents pack them off to bed. Georges lingers behind, watching the dying firelight play over the tableau of Jeanne and Isabeau.

He does not want to hope, especially not so soon after being so abominably disappointed, but he finds it creeping in in spite of all his efforts to stifle it.

—-

“Thank you,” Jeanne says politely, as Adela and Bertrand pour milk and sugar into her porridge for her. Lea can’t quite remember the taste of her own morning porridge, but she hardly thinks she took it as sweet as Jeanne does.

Lea sits in the middle of the table, quiet and a bit sleepy in the morning light. Being a vase suits her rather well. She would prefer to be human again, of course, but her lot isn’t so bad. She would hate to be a plate or a spoon, for example. Sometimes she thinks it would be nice to be able to move around more easily, being finely cut crystal makes her extremely reluctant to hop about for fear of chipping or cracking, but Eulalie is very generous with her wheeled trays and Lea can use those to get about if she wants. With Raymond as a decanter and Christophe as one of the glasses on the sidebar, she has her family with her, and Georges and Albin and Eulalie are generally about to update her on the latest gossip around the house.

Lea doesn’t talk to Jeanne as much as some of the others, but she does like her. In the first weeks after her arrival, she brought in fresh flowers from outside for Lea. Since it’s gotten colder outside, Jeanne has fashioned a lovely fabric flower arrangement so the table isn’t bare. It’s nice, and Lea appreciates the unprompted consideration.

Isabeau, who normally gobbles up her breakfast by sticking her entire head into the bowl like a dog, has taken to politely sipping from the side of her bowl since she and Jeanne have begun breakfasting together. Utensils are difficult for her to manage with her paws, which Jeanne noticed the first day and wordlessly switched to sipping from her own bowl.

“I thought we might go for a walk after breakfast,” Jeanne says. “I’d like to feed the birds.”

Isabeau raises an eyebrow. “That might be best done without me. Smaller animals don’t like me very much.”

“I’m sure we can make you suitably nonthreatening,” Jeanne says with a smile.

Lea, curious about how this could possibly be accomplished, hops onto the waiting tea tray the second the doors close behind Jeanne and Isabeau. Several of the glasses pile on as well, Carine and Lucienne giggling in the back as the tea tray rolls sedately down the corridors.

Eulalie, Albin, and Georges are all already clustered in front of a window, looking down on the front walk. The tea tray parks itself neatly beside them, and the glasses clamor for position. Lea hushes some of the younger and more boisterous ones, making sure everyone is settled in and can see.

Jeanne, wrapped in a warm crimson fur-lined cloak, and Isabeau, who doesn’t need much additional protection from the cold thanks to her thick fur, emerge and carefully navigate down the icy stairs. Isabeau lets Jeanne lean on her arm, ensuring that they both make it down to the even white surface of the newly fallen snow unscathed. Jeanne has a small pouch of birdseed tied around her waist, and she scoops some out and lets the birds flutter in and out of her hand. Isabeau attempts the same thing, but the birds seem reluctant to land amidst her claws.

Jeanne bends down, encouraging Isabeau to cup her hands and hold them flattened and low on the ground. It takes a bit, but the birds start to briefly land and nibble at the birdseed. Isabeau turns to Jeanne, a delighted expression on her face, and Jeanne smiles back.

“So sweet,” Eulalie sighs happily. “Wait, what are they- No! Oh dear! Jeanne will think her terribly rude!”

Below, a snowball fight has broken out. Lea is fairly sure Jeanne initiated it by shoving snow down the back of Isabeau’s shirt, so she thinks Eulalie’s fears are rather unfounded.

“Don’t worry,” Albin says comfortingly. “They seem to be enjoying themselves, don’t they?”

Eulalie tuts disapprovingly, hopping off to start a fire in the sitting room with a muttered, “I’d best make sure no one takes a chill,” but Lea agrees with Albin.

“It does look fun,” one of the glasses says, sighing wistfully. “I miss being human.”

A little silence settles over the group at that. They all have things they miss about being human. It’s difficult, being trapped in this situation that is mostly outside their control. Certainly, they can all do their best to make sure Isabeau gets along with any guests, but in the end it’s really up to Isabeau and whoever her potential fiancée is at the moment. She and Jeanne have spent much more time together than Isabeau ever has with any of the others. It’s growing increasingly easy to be hopeful, and to forget the weight of the stakes, the heaviness of disappointment.

“Well,” Georges says briskly, “all we can do is try to help in whatever way we can. Does everyone know what they’re meant to do to prepare for tonight?”

“Everyone is gathering in the kitchens in,” Albin hops over to peer up at the tall grandfather clock, “ten minutes. We’d better go join them. Eulalie will keep Jeanne and Isabeau in the sitting room for a bit.”

The tea tray whizzes off to the kitchen, sending the glasses toppling into one another briefly.

“Slow down,” Lea scolds. “We have ample time, and there’s no use breaking anyone.” The tea tray slows, a little sulkily.

—-

Georges clears his throat, nodding to the fork and glass next to him to make a clear ringing sound. The kitchen falls silent.

“Tonight, we will be hosting an event the likes of which this house has not seen for twelve years. Those of you who were not too young at the time,” Georges eyes the little cluster of children, “recall the night the curse was cast over us all.” If possible, the silence grows even more defined. Of course, they all remember that night all too clearly.

Isabeau, still reeling from the sudden loss of supervision caused by the death of her controlling mother, had decided to throw a ball. This alone would perhaps have occasioned a little comment from the well-to-do families in the neighborhood. She wasn’t remotely close to out of mourning, and a ball so soon after the death of an immediate family member would be viewed as rather tasteless and gauche, no matter how tame the affair.

Isabeau has never been tame.

Instead of inviting eligible bachelors and ladies just a bit less beautiful than herself, Isabeau chose to invite no one; no one of importance, that is. The ball was held, with Isabeau’s own closets and jewelry cases thrown open, for the entirety of the house’s staff. Everyone, from the lowliest scullery maid to the (comparatively lofty) resident castoff cousin, Dominique, was invited. Isabeau herself helped with most of the preparations, flitting from kitchens to gardens to ballroom to make sure everything was ready.

It had been a lovely evening, planned neatly down to the last note of music, but it had gone rather abruptly pear-shaped when the mysterious enchantress and her rose and curse arrived.

The ballroom, although kept neat by the little flurries of magic that keep the castle clean and orderly, has been very seldom used since then. The chairs are all stacked neatly against the wall, covered by dust cloths, the grand piano languishes out of tune, and the floor is dull and unpolished.

“If we are to break the hold this curse has over us all,” Georges continues, “we must revisit that night.” Rather dramatically, to Lea’s great enjoyment, Georges sweeps a crimson cloth to the side to reveal a neat series of sketches propped on an easel. They feature the ballroom from different angles, set up and decorated. “The instruments have already agreed to provide music for the evening. Everyone,” she looks sternly at a squeaky piccolo, “is to be tuned and polished. The floors need to be buffed and gleaming. The silverware and china is already in good shape, but make sure you all stay out of trouble today.” Eulalie beams with pride at this complement to her housekeeping skills. “The chairs are to be set up in the arrangement I have indicated,” Georges nods to one of the sketches, “but only after the floors are good and dry. I don’t want polish smeared and scratched. Every chair must be checked over for damage, and I want that piano positively gleaming! The adjacent room is to be set for a multi-course dinner, the kitchen staff have the menu, and make sure Isabeau has a solid enough chair to sit in. Jeanne will be wearing something astonishingly fashionable if Dominique has her way, so her chair needs to be wide enough to accommodate a formal gown.” Georges sees that most of the staff is positively hopping with excitement at this point, so he sighs and dismisses them. “You know what needs to be done. Come find me or Albin if you have any questions or need a job, and Eulalie if it’s anything to do with dinner or music. Dismissed.”

—-

Jeanne stands in the garden, closing her eyes to soak up the last rays of sun.

She needs to get ready for dinner soon, the dress alone will take at least a half hour to get into, but she has a few minutes. A sliver of time to brace herself in, for the coming whirl. Maybe it will be easier, once she’s squeezed into the dress and has her hair powdered and hands carefully covered with fine silk gloves. Maybe she will be a different person, then, transformed into something soft and delicate, a rose.

Because, really, what she needs to brace for is the terrifying allure of being able to exist as herself. Not even necessarily to be loved for it, simply to be given space for it. Wide, breathing space. Because Jeanne knows, even in the dress that Dominique chose and the jewelry that belongs to the castle and the gloves that hide her calluses, that Isabeau will continue to see just Jeanne. This dinner isn’t really for the two of them, after all. It’s for the others, and so they are both doing it willingly, even gladly.

But Isabeau will not see a princess, or a fine lady, no matter how Jeanne dresses, and the relief of that knowledge nearly sweeps her away, if she thinks about it too closely.

It is getting harder and harder for Jeanne to remember this isn’t forever. Not the dresses, and the jewelry, not the food, which she enjoys and will set aside the enjoyment of without missing much. Not the garden, not the library, not all the corners of the castle she is coming to love. Not the others, not Isabeau, and not, and this is the part that is hardest for Jeanne to keep pressing into her own memory, not this self of hers, which will need to die and be put away with the rest of it when the last petal falls.

Jeanne thinks about earlier in the day, about reading to Isabeau in the library. Of how gentle Isabeau’s big rough hands are on the spines of the books, when Jeanne holds them out to her to show her a particularly fine illustration.

Jeanne feels sometimes as if there is something feral in her, something she smothered when she was young. It still lives, but a half-life, weak and starving. Hungry and mewling like a kitten, too small and frail to care for its own needs. To hurt anyone, even to hunt. She feels like her own hand is constantly trying to close around the handle of a knife, to rip through flesh and tear herself open, to let her ribs breathe. She hates both the weakness of the urge, that she cannot hurt, rend, tear, even into those who deserve it. And she hates that she feels the urge, at all.

Why can she not be only one: a wild beast or an ordinary person? Either would be simpler. Both, unbearable.

It feels almost astonishingly selfish, that she wishes things could stay the way they are. This peace out of time, even in winter, where Jeanne can breathe. This place, where all the weak small shriveled and shivering parts of her are given sunshine and water. Freedom. Jeanne is not a beast here, by comparison, so she can seem something resembling a woman.

Jeanne sometimes feels as if she has swallowed the sea. The wanting in her runs so deep, so wide, that nothing can fathom it. No matter how far round the boat of her mind swings it cannot compass her own longings, her fears, her desires.

Being in nature soothes her because it feels even, similarly boundless. So big that she can pour her entirety out and watch it drain into the starving soil. Being near other people has always done the opposite. Driven her deeper, farther, dug out the bottoms of her soul into cavernous wells that she can’t ever quite see all of.

There’s something terrifying in that, but wonderful. Being perched on the edge of her own dissolution, the memory of water a faint echo in her depths. It aches wonderfully, that spinning out of Jeanne into a whole universe. She feels like a great ball of glass, like a canyon, like something starving and old.

But then, inevitably, she must pack all that up into the tiny carrying case that is daily life, pull in the tendrils of her soul and sear off the edges to make them fit. She has always craved solitude for the same reason that she dreads it: being completely herself, and the attendant knowledge that really, deep down, she has no desire to change.

She slips so easily between those states, here. One moment the yawning gulf beneath the wings of a remote eagle, the next a raft coming gently to berth. She feels whole, in a way she never has before.

The thing that draws her so deeply into Isabeau is that same spinning-wide abyss. Isabeau is endless, just like Jeanne. Deep and wide and starving. She never realized, although perhaps she should have, that that kind of hunger existed anywhere except within herself. Not the selfish, nipping hunger of Mercier or Jeanne’s father, that pinches off and devours pieces of others carelessly, but something pure and burning. Something that asks from Jeanne a reciprocal respect, understanding, patience. A hugeness of being that does not offer itself entirely to her, and does not ask her to offer herself entirely to it, because of a mutual understanding of the impossibility of such an undertaking. Isabeau will not, or cannot, bend, even to the curse, and Jeanne loves her for that: her refusal to be anything but her whole, angry, impossible self.

It was never loving that was difficult for Jeanne, and it does not surprise her, the ease with which she has come to love this place, and these people. It was being loved back, that was the challenge. For the first time, Jeanne finds that she might need more than be needed. That she might, in some distant, fairy-tale ending, be allowed to have more than that.

The end she has always forseen, and feared, becomes more and more distasteful the more she has a chance to taste the opposite. Jeanne has always feared losing her freedom. Having her depths be compassed by someone else who cuts her down to a shadow, a dull flickering candle flame who only exists as background to fire.

When she was young, she thought that was what she wanted. To be understood, to be loved, to be swallowed down and becalmed. But she has grown too fond of her own wildness, and has found that, after all, owning the freedom of another is not worth the price of her own.

So she breathes in the last of the sunlight, and presses the memory hard into her own heart. What it is like, to be known as wild, and to not be asked to be tame.

At least, not yet, not for a little while longer.

—-

The most difficult part will be the beginning, Mercier thinks. It would not normally present much of a challenge, to sit down to tea with someone. He is welcomed, or at least tolerated, at all the houses in the neighborhood, save one. He could make a morning call to any of them, slip a few drops of the apothecary’s potion into a cup under the guise of pouring the tea. Unfortunately, Arsène Vincent’s house is the one exception to this rule of hospitality.

Still, Mercier can be patient when it comes to getting what he wants, and in some ways this plan is much easier with Jeanne from home. Her father lacks a daughter’s attentiveness, having to make due with a woman from the village who comes in to do the cooking and tidy up in the evenings. She is easy enough to recruit as an ally. She does not like Vincent much, because he pays very little and complains a great deal. Mercier purchases her allegiance to himself quite cheaply, half in coin and half in false solicitude for Jeanne.

No one in the village can be precisely worked up to concern about Jeanne’s captivity, much to her father’s indignity. He considers himself ill-used and much inconvenienced, but the general consensus, no matter how often or how bitterly Vincent complains in the tavern, is that he must simply wait another week or two, just like all the other fathers before him. If there is no concern for Jeanne’s safety, though, there is the increasingly hearty wish for her return, if only to stop her father being such a nuisance to everyone else. Mercier, with a little artfulness and some light falsehood, casts himself as the patiently waiting lover in the eyes of the village. It’s not as if there is anyone else who wants to marry Jeanne, why shouldn’t it be him?

The strands of his plan slowly begin to come together: the first three doses of potion, slipped into Vincent’s cup at the tavern, which make Vincent shaky and tired; Mercier’s allegiance with his housekeeper; the general consensus the village is reaching that it would really be best for Jeanne to return soon.

Vincent still hates Mercier, but his resistance is greatly broken down by querulous illness and a lack of sympathy. He is enough of a fool to believe Mercier’s interest in his health to be, if not entirely genuine, at least on behalf of Jeanne. Vincent, urged by his housekeeper, allows Mercier to visit a few days, to sit with him in his sickroom and listen to his complaints. He allows Mercier to pour his tea, and solicitously offer to send for a doctor, and from there, it is simplicity itself.

—-

Jeanne is, admittedly, much distracted during the first course. A letter came while she was dressing, left pinned to the castle gate this morning with her name on the outside. She is not quite ready to fully examine the contents within her own head, let alone to air them to Isabeau.

Isabeau is used to Jeanne’s habitual abstraction, at this point, and generally doesn’t make much fuss over it. She simply leaves Jeanne to her thoughts. This, in turn, has made Jeanne a little more conscious of her attention. It is much easier, she finds, to set aside her thoughts for conversation when she can do so at her own leisure, and with ample time for herself besides.

It takes her a while, therefore, to notice that Isabeau is also distracted. They have gotten into the habit of dining en famille, chairs pushed almost together, but tonight a formal table has been set in the ballroom. Isabeau is too far away for much practical conversation, even without enthusiastic accompaniment from the musical instruments. The food is good, as usual, and the music is lovely, but Isabeau seems absorbed in her own thoughts. They do not look like they are necessarily pleasing thoughts.

Abruptly, Jeanne pushes her chair back. The music does not falter, but Isabeau looks at her, startled, when Jeanne makes her way around the table. They are nearly of a height, with Isabeau seated, and Jeanne does not need to crane her neck so much as she usually does to look at Isabeau.

“Dance with me?” Jeanne’s voice wobbles a little, on the question, and she flushes with embarrassment. She isn’t sure what prompted her sudden forwardness, beyond the strangeness of being so far away from Isabeau, and having her look so unhappy.

Isabeau smiles, though, the big, toothy one that she only began with once it became clear that Jeanne wasn’t afraid of her, and stands. “If you like,” she says. “I’m very out of practice, and never was particularly good at following the steps.”

“And I never learned them at all,” Jeanne says, calmer now that Isabeau is standing next to her. She puts a hand on Isabeau’s arm. “The instruments are too well-bred to laugh at us, so I think we shall be safe.”

Jeanne has never danced much, her father does not like assemblies, so she has Isabeau walk her through a few figures. Jeanne is not graceful, though, even without the wine at dinner, and she leans more and more heavily on a laughing Isabeau to bear her around the room. She is not much of a burden to Isabeau’s strength, even with the heaviness of her clothing, and they devolve slowly into merely spinning about the room. Jeanne tilts her head back, watching the lights and the ceiling whirl above her. Her wig falls off, and Isabeau laughs harder, and Jeanne smiles and lets her head fall onto Isabeau’s chest. She feels so much lighter without the wig, and she can feel the rumble of Isabeau’s laughter, and she feels warm and borne aloft.

Isabeau stops whirling her around, eventually, setting her gently back on her feet.

“Thank you,” Jeanne says, smiling up at her. They’ve moved almost to the edge of the ballroom, by the huge windows thrown open to let in the night air. Jeanne drifts out onto the balcony, leaning on the railing and tilting her head back.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Isabeau says, and Jeanne smiles over her shoulder in acknowledgement, and looks back up at the stars. The moon is high and thin in the sky, like the discarded fingernail of a remote goddess, precious and finite.

Isabeau joins her shortly, with a tray of their wine glasses and some beautiful little cakes. She pours for Jeanne, holding her own glass carefully in one paw so they can clink them together. The cakes are delicious, and the night is luckily mild, and Jeanne feels briefly, wonderfully happy.

Jeanne thinks about the letter, on her dressing table upstairs, from Mme Laure at the tavern, lines floating through her memory.

_Your father is taken very ill, and we fear for him despite the attentions of the doctor..._

_...uncertain what the cause of this malady is..._

_I know the last petal must not yet have fallen, but perhaps there is some scrap of kindness in the heart of that monster you can appeal to._

Jeanne swallows around a lump in her throat. Surely, tomorrow is soon enough? She can ask tomorrow, to return home. She does not fear Isabeau’s reaction, or particularly expect opposition, and she is worried for her father, of course. But mostly, Jeanne feels, selfishly, that she wants one more night, here. One more night of happiness, or at least the pretense of it.

“This is a beautiful room,” Jeanne says finally, pulling her thoughts back to the present.

Isabeau hums a little, looking back at the ballroom behind them. “I hate this room,” she says. There’s no heat in it, just a kind of resignation. It makes Jeanne shiver a little, the loneliness of it. The kind where you won’t even call out, you’re that certain no one is there to hear you, or would care if they could.

“In that case,” Jeanne says evenly, “it is a very ugly room, and should be repurposed immediately.” Isabeau laughs, and it pinches tight in Jeanne’s stomach, painful and precious.

_One more night_ , she thinks, almost pleading with herself. _Just one more night._

—-

As expected, Isabeau takes the news calmly at breakfast the next morning.

“If he is ill, you must go to him,” Isabeau agrees immediately.

“What about the curse?” Jeanne asks. This is the one aspect she’s uncertain on. The curse certainly allowed her to leave the house last time, although there is a chance the wolves were not entirely natural in origin. Still, there does not seem to be a force keeping her here.

Isabeau shrugs. “You will forfeit your right to break the curse, by leaving early, but no harm will come to you.”

“I’ll try to be back in time,” Jeanne says. Stupidly, her heart twists a little, at how calmly Isabeau is taking this. “We have over a week left.” She is not certain of this timeline, is merely guessing from her experience observing the castle and the curse from a distance, but Isabeau does not contradict her.

“If you wish. You are always welcome here.” Isabeau is already rising, calling for Albin to see about the carriage, and everything happens in a whirl from there. Jeanne’s possessions, and then Jeanne herself, are packed into the enchanted carriage, which bears her swiftly and safely home.

_It looks smaller than I remember,_ Jeanne thinks, alighting from the carriage, and then scolds herself for her snobbishness. She thanks the carriage, unsure if it understands her or not but leaning toward politeness anyway, and then pulls out her latch-key to let herself in the door.

Jeanne comes in quietly, reluctant to disturb her father if he is sleeping, and leaves her things by the door. She makes her way almost silently through the familiar house, letting herself into her father’s room.

To her utter astonishment, there are two people sitting with him. One, Mme Chausson, a woman from the village who does some cooking and light housework for many of the richer townsfolk, is not such a surprise. The other, M. Mercier, is a shock, and an unpleasant one at that.

“Oh, Jeanne!” Mme Chausson cries, jumping to her feet. “You’re free!” Jeanne’s father moans weakly, turning his head toward the noise. Jeanne looks down at him in concern. He looks very ill indeed, his hair thin and stringy and his cheeks sunken.

“I had a letter from Mme Laure about father’s health,” Jeanne says quietly. “I came right away.” She feels guilty for the slight lie, and guiltier still for her own delay. In truth, she finds, she did not expect to find him so ill, although Mme Laure is not prone to exaggeration. Her father is so robust, so full of life, that she could not picture him in such a state.

“Jeanne,” her father whispers, and Jeanne goes to his side at once, sitting so she can take his hand. “You’ve come back to me.”

“Father,” Jeanne says, distressed. She looks up at Mme Chausson. “Will you please send for the doctor, if he has not already been here today? I would hear from him anything I can do to ease my father’s suffering.”

“Of course,” Mme Chausson says, leaving the room at once.

“I’m certain it will be a great comfort for your father to have you back,” Mercier says. There is something a little strained in his tone, and Jeanne glances over at him sharply. He quickly forces a smile, but is clearly not entirely pleased to see her.

“Thank you,” Jeanne says stiffly. She wants to ask what he’s doing here, what possible interest he has in this case, but cannot think of a way to do so remotely politely.

In any case, Mercier takes his leave before the arrival of the doctor, so Jeanne sets that problem aside for the moment to focus on her father’s health.

Unfortunately, the doctor has little to tell her. He is utterly baffled, both by the sudden appearance of the symptoms and the complete lack of efficacy of any treatment. “Perhaps the return of his daughter will help where medicine cannot,” he tells her.

Jeanne takes this claim rather dubiously, but strangely it seems, at first, that the doctor is right. Her father does begin to improve, almost immediately. His appetite returns, he is less tired, and he regains enough energy within the space of two days that he can sit up in his sickbed.

This is a relief to Jeanne, and she thinks to Arsène as well, although he complains about the enforced inactivity. Partly for something to distract him with, the doctor has strictly forbidden any activity that taxes his brain overmuch, Jeanne brings up Mercier’s presence.

“Have you resolved your quarrel with M. Mercier, then, father?” she asks.

“Hmph,” her father says. “Still think the man is an idiot, but he made himself useful around here, at least.”

“It is good you had someone with you, until I could return,” Jeanne says. _Although I wish it had been anyone else,_ she adds silently. Her grasp on spinsterhood is tenuous enough as it is, without a resolution between her father and Mercier.

Her father furrows his brows. “It’s a bit strange he’s taken off the way he has. I would think it would be quite the opposite, with you back at home.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” Jeanne says, forcing calmness into her tone. Her father looks as if he intends to continue the conversation, but Jeanne redirects his attention by offering to read to him, and is greatly relieved when he allows the subject of Mercier to drop.

Still, it preys on her mind. It is not just that the presence of Mercier around her father is unwelcome, or that it is surprising. There is something about the whole situation that strikes Jeanne as strange. From the near-raptures Mme Chausson goes into about Mercier, when she and Jeanne are in the kitchen and Jeanne has a moment to ask about him, it becomes clear Mercier has been there a great deal. He has been, according to Mme Chausson, devoted to her father’s care, to the extent of preparing the tinctures the doctor left and administering them himself. That he should so quickly absent himself seems odd indeed.

Jeanne does not think Mercier stupid, or kind, and his behavior really only makes sense in one light. For whatever reason, he has decided he wants to marry Jeanne. He must have seen her father’s sudden illness as a doorway, an opportunity to allow him to mend fences. This makes sense as far as it goes. Jeanne has relied rather heavily on the excuse of her father’s objection to refuse Mercier in the past, and she easily thinks him clever enough to come up with the plan and even to dupe her father. Her father is a very intelligent man, but with machines, not with people.

The portion of the problem that resists interpretation, no matter how many different angles Jeanne looks at it from, is his sudden absence. With her father softened, and Jeanne back at home, why not press his advantage? Were Mercier a different kind of man, Jeanne might think it shame at the blatant way he’s insinuated himself with her father in her absence. Perhaps he has merely changed his mind, whatever reason he had for suddenly taking an interest in Jeanne vanishing as quickly as it came.

Mercier returns on the third day, all solicitude, and Jeanne reluctantly discards the hope that he has given up the scheme of marrying her.

“I hope I am not intruding,” Mercier says, bending to smile condescendingly at Jeanne. “I wanted to give you time to settle in at home before trespassing upon you.”

“You’re very kind,” Jeanne says mechanically, leading him into the sick room.

“So you’re back again,” her father says rudely.

Mercier looks truly, frighteningly angry for a second, before his face smooths back into polite lines. “I heard from our mutual friend Mme Chausson that you are feeling better, sir. I was glad to hear it. Surely all the credit is due to your amiable nurse,” he adds, with a nod to Jeanne.

Her father takes the invitation to complain about being confined to his room, and Jeanne leaves them alone for a few moments to get the tea things together. She looks down at the familiar cups and saucers, thinking of Denis and Euphrasie and Eulalie’s other children. Jeanne has tried to keep her thoughts here, as much as possible. It hurts less, that way.

She quickly finishes setting everything on a tray, making certain everything is set up securely and easy to carry, and then pauses. An idea begins to glimmer in the back of her mind. Jeanne isn’t certain that Mercier really is up to something, but it can’t hurt to do a little investigation of her own. Jeanne bites her lip, thinking. It might be a little suspicious, but she thinks Mercier will assume carelessness or laziness on her part, rather than artifice. Jeanne takes the teacups from their saucers, turning them upright, and then fills them with tea before setting them back on the tray. It’s a foolish way to carry a tea tray, increasing the danger of spills by a needless degree, which Jeanne is counting on.

She carries the tray to the room, pretending to stumble a little as she approaches the bed. It is not difficult at all, notching a finger under one of the teacups and making certain it spills all over Mercier, all while looking as though she is trying to steady the tray.

“Oh no,” Jeanne gasps, as Mercier shoots to his feet and begins yanking off his coat. “Oh, I’m so clumsy! Please forgive me monsieur!” She sets aside the tea tray, holding out her hands and trying to look mortified. Her father starts laughing.

“That is quite all right,” Mercier says, his eyes glittering with anger.

“Let me have your coat. I’ll wash it right away so the stain doesn’t set.”

“Fine,” Mercier says, dismissively. He’s distracted, half glaring at her father, and Jeanne feels a flash of triumph at the success of her plan.

She takes Mercier’s coat into the kitchen, standing over the washbasin and blocking any view of what she is doing with her body. She doesn’t think either man will follow her, but takes the extra precaution regardless. Her fingers dive quickly into the pockets on the inside of the coat. She isn’t certain what she’s looking for, only hopes there will be something that begins to explain Mercier’s odd behavior.

She finds a handkerchief, a small handwritten book, a bit of stained blotting paper, the end of a broken pen, and a vial. She examines the book first. It appears to be some kind of record of expenses, mostly small amounts with names of recipients Jeanne recognizes from around town: the butcher, a produce seller, the tavern. Those she does not recognize have no further detail, although they are all mostly small numbers, save one. The recipient listed appears again, twice, the same amount each time. She examines the vial next. It has a label, stained and much worn, but Jeanne can make out the name of the apothecary shop it has come from. It’s the same name that is in the account book.

Jeanne realizes her heart is racing, and that she has been standing frozen over the sink for nearly a minute. She returns the items to Mercier’s pockets quickly, before patting at and drying the stain. She doesn’t have time to think about what this might mean now. She’ll wait until Mercier leaves.

—-

Isabeau has many regrets, in life. She doesn’t like to dwell on them, both because to do so is unpleasant and because to do so gives her a strange feeling of being unmoored in time, which is also unpleasant.

For a long time, she refused to be sorry for anything at all. Not her hemlines, or her tendency to bite her nails, or her lack of interest in either pleasing or using men, or her waspish temperament. All grave flaws, in her mother’s eyes.

She never wanted to regret the curse, either, because regretting it felt like admitting that it was her fault, that she caused it, which felt like admitting that her mother was right all along. That there is something rotting in her, deep, something broken and unloveable because it is not fixable, and love is fixing yourself, not expecting anyone else to do it for you.

She doesn’t regret letting Jeanne go, and she does.

Isabeau didn’t even hesitate to send her away, in the moment, because it felt like there was finally something she could do. Something that felt right, however briefly. Something that let her feel like a good person, an unselfish person.

And why make a fuss, after all? On some level, she always knew how it would end, because Jeanne is a good person, but doesn’t love Isabeau. She can’t love Isabeau, for the same reason she is kind to Isabeau. Because Jeanne is a good person, truly, and an unselfish person, and Isabeau will never be that, however much she pretends.

The wind whips Isabeau’s carefully combed mane into a tangle, blowing it into her eyes. They didn’t change, stayed grey and eerie-human. The few people she’s met since this whole thing started avoid looking at them, careful to watch the claws and the fur and the teeth that mark her out as animal, as thing.

Jeanne always looked at her, into her eyes, into her face, unflinching.

Isabeau thinks about that, and about Jeanne’s hands, which did not hesitate to touch her, once granted permission. Jeanne’s hands are red and chapped, callused and swollen, and they both liked the look of their hands together, Isabeau thinks. Jeanne’s hands are not the soft manicured perfection of Isabeau’s hands before, a ladies’ hands even with the nails bitten down. Jeanne’s are hands that Isabeau can hold in her own, and not be afraid to spoil them. They are everyday hands, solid and reliable.

These are the things she regrets.

What she does not regret, not even with the uncertainty gathering in the house like a storm, is sending Jeanne away.

The curse doesn’t like it, but Isabeau had half-accepted that, even before Jeanne was out of the house. No one has left before the rose drops its last petal. The rules are clear.

“You’re an idiot,” Georges had said that morning, when Isabeau collapsed trying to walk from the breakfast table to the door, the tightness in his voice trying to hide real fear. “You know the rules, better than anyone.”

“She was needed at home,” Isabeau replied.

The weakness in her limbs has gotten steadily worse, in the days since Jeanne left. Her vision has gone strange around the edges, white spots dancing just out of view. The rose under its bell jar continues to wilt, only a few petals left.

Isabeau sits on the balcony in the west wing, breathing labored in the thin air even though it has been nearly an hour since she stood. For all the weakness of her body, life feels sharper, now, more immediate, even as it flees.

She has forbidden everyone in the castle from contacting Jeanne in any way, and that resolution feels solid, as the rest of her crumbles and erodes.

It’s her curse, to be unloveable and unsaveable, and there is some peace in accepting that, in taking the full brunt of it, at long last. To know herself to be dying of it, coming to an end. No more uncertainty, no more pain, no more bracing for a blow that may yet come. The blow has landed, finally and for the last time.

—-

Jeanne watches Mercier like a hawk, for the entirety of his visit. She has her suspicions about the vial, and his proximity to her father, and perhaps it would be wiser to simply confirm them. To pretend inattentiveness, to actually see him put whatever is in the vial into her father’s tea. She cannot bring herself to risk that. She does not think Mercier would actually kill her father, but she is beginning to seriously suspect that he might be behind the sudden illness, and only Mercier himself knows precisely how dangerous whatever is in the vial is.

Once she and her father are left alone again, Jeanne begins with some careful questions. Her father, still amused by the incident with the tea and eager to tease her for her clumsiness, happily tells her about the beginning of this thaw with Mercier. He confirms, rather carelessly, that Mercier had been in charge of his medicines from the doctor, before Jeanne’s return. The illness apparently began before Mercier’s visits, but well after the appearance of Mme Chausson. The woman seems kindly enough, but she could possibly be an accomplice of Mercier’s, either knowingly or unknowingly.

Jeanne considers what to do about her suspicions. She needs to raise them in the right way, with her father. He will accept, she thinks, the premise that Mercier might be betraying him, and probably even that Mme Chausson is involved. The difficulty is that her father does not like to be made to feel stupid, or foolish, and his pride is prodigious.

She begins with the doctor’s next visit, pulling him aside to speak to him privately after he’s finished seeing to her father.

“I wanted to ask you about a certain apothecary shop,” Jeanne begins. “One of my acquaintances, who lives in,” Jeanne names the town, “spoke of it. She claims their treatment was wonderfully effective for her aunt, who suffered from a similar condition to father’s.”

“Ah, yes,” the doctor says nodding. “What was the name of the place?” He immediately frowns, when Jeanne names the shop, and something in her stomach turns icy. The doctor clears his throat. “I’m certain your friend is well intentioned,” he begins, “but I’m afraid I must inform you that shop has a very poor reputation indeed. I would advise you to look elsewhere.”

“I thank you for your council,” Jeanne says. She pauses. She does not know the doctor well, but his reputation in the town is good, and honorable, including from those who are not rich enough to pay him his usual wage. Besides, he is someone her father respects, and will listen to. Perhaps he will dismiss her suspicions immediately, but Jeanne does not suspect him, at least, of being in league with Mercier.

She tells him about the vial, and about her concerns, trying to avoid words like ‘poison’ or anything that makes it sound as if Jeanne reads too many novels about the court. She simply says that it fell out of Mercier’s coat while she was treating a stain, and that she noted the label. Because the doctor is frowning still, and looks very solemn indeed, she admits that the statement about her friend was a fiction, and that she merely wished to gauge the reputation of the shop in question.

“This is a very serious allegation,” the doctor says slowly.

“I do not make it lightly,” Jeanne says, remaining calm. After a few moments, the doctor looks at her, and nods thoughtfully.

“I will go to visit this apothecary, to see if I can determine what Mercier might have purchased there, and if the effects could be similar to your father’s condition. I would urge you to keep close watch over him in the meantime.”

“Of course,” Jeanne says, relieved. She cannot travel to the apothecary herself, even if her father could be left safely alone, but that would have been her course of action as well.

—-

As Jeanne expected, her father is reluctant to believe her, even with the doctor’s corroboration.

“It does you credit to be so loyal to a man you thought a friend,” the doctor says, “but unfortunately I have little doubt about the matter. The man recognized my description of Mercier, and told me he had been in several times to purchase a medicine for his great-aunt. The mixture is a noxious one, and explains many aspects of your condition that have puzzled me for some time.”

“It can’t be true,” Arsène exclaims, although he shows more willingness to be convinced after the doctor’s repeated protestations about how kind-hearted and true a friend Arsène is, and how terribly he has been treated in response to this kindness.

By the end of the doctor’s visit, her father has thoroughly come round to the idea, even muttering something about a court case and writing to a contact of his in the law profession.

“In any respect,” the doctor says, “you are lucky to have such an intelligent daughter.”

“Oh, Jeanne?” Arsène says vaguely. “Yes she’s very good at these sorts of things. Taking care of people, you know.”

“I encourage you to stay strictly to the course of medicines I have left with her, and to take them only from Jeanne herself,” the doctor cautions. Her father being distracted with rummaging through his card case, Jeanne assures the doctor that everything is well in hand, and sees him out.

When she comes back, her father is demanding writing paper and his desk, but she merely sits and waits for him to frown at her and stop speaking.

“Father,” Jeanne says. “Why do you think Mercier would go to such lengths?”

“Clearly he’s deranged,” her father says.

“On the contrary,” Jeanne says, “this seems a very logical and methodical plan.”

“Logical! To...to poison a man!”

“I’m not arguing the morality of it,” Jeanne says, trying to sound gentle rather than impatient. “I’m merely saying, he must have had some aim in mind, to take such desperate measures.”

“To marry you, surely. I know he’s spoken to you on such matters before.”

“And I have refused him,” Jeanne points out.

“Quite sensibly,” her father says. “As he is clearly some kind of-“

“But why?” Jeanne breaks in. “Why is he so determined to marry me?” Her father pauses, pursing his lips, and Jeanne presses forward. “You have always refused to speak on the subject of your falling out with Mercier,” she says, “and I have respected your silence. But I really think, with all that has happened, it is better that I know.”

Arsène sighs. “You’re a very good sort of girl, Jeanne,” he says. “But some things are beyond your understanding.”

“I trust your ability to explain,” Jeanne says, inexorably. She has never pushed her father before, never resisted his authority, not really. She never felt she really had a choice. He is her only protection from the rest of the world. Or, he was. He may still be, the rose that brought her to the castle may have died, but Jeanne thinks, perhaps, that there is another path open to her still. _You are always welcome here_ , Isabeau had said. And why not return, once her father is safe? Why not go back, even if only to work in the gardens and keep out of sight with the rest of the servants?

So Jeanne sits, and waits, and eventually her father sighs and consents to explain.

It is a simple story, as it turns out. Some five years ago, Arsène had an idea. An invention. He needed materials and time, though, and had no capital to pay for such things. He had enough to convince investors, with the notable exception of Antoine Mercier.

Jeanne sits in silent astonishment as her father details the large return made for all his investors, the extent of his own profits, nearly all sitting securely in a bank. Her father misinterprets her shock.

“You know my inventions are good ideas,” he says, a little mulishly. “Why are you so startled that others might think so as well?”

“I did not realize that you had such wealth,” Jeanne says, voice a little strained. She finds, to her own astonishment, that she is angry. Really, truly, angry. Not just at her father’s deception, motivated by thinking her either stupid or greedy or both, and not just at the shame she has felt bargaining for food in the village, or at the way that even a small amount of the money her father apparently has could have eased not only their lives, but the lives of the other tradespeople in the village. “So that is what Mercier wants,” Jeanne says. “Money.”

“I suppose that may be the case,” Arsène says reluctantly.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Well, you’d hardly have married Mercier! I would have told you, if there had been any danger of that.”

“I could have married someone else, though,” Jeanne points out. “I could have a dowry.”

Arsène grimaces. “Of course, if things had come to that, I would have given you a dowry,” he says stiffly.

Jeanne wonders, distantly, if that is true. It seems rather beside the point, as dowries only really work if people know about them. There is a part of her that wants to press the point, to try and explain to her father that which he will never understand. He cannot feel the fear that has followed her all her life, of domineering husbands, of poverty, of hunger, a fear that he could have alleviated, and chose not to, because he did not consider it important.

Arsène has never understood or cared about Jeanne’s fears, not of the dark, not of her mother’s ghost, not of being alone, or hungry. He loves her, but he does not understand her, and he does not want to understand her. He wants her to stay simply a dependent, reliable and placid, there to ease his life.

So Jeanne does not argue. She helps him ready for bed, and vows to engage a new housekeeper, someone from the village she can trust, the next day. Her father will make a fuss about the expense, and Jeanne will insist on setting the terms of engagement generously, but she thinks this event has shaken him enough that she will gain the day.

—-

All in all, it has been nearly eight days since Jeanne left the castle. Things are a muddle in the village, although at least the new housekeeper has been hired and her wages set, as Jeanne resolved. She expects a greater battle for the sympathies of the town than ultimately results. No one liked Mercier much, and the news that Monsieur Vincent is secretly very wealthy and may be in need of more household help, in addition to the drama of the scandal, quickly leads to Mercier’s ostracism from the village. There is still the potential of a court case looming over him, too, and Jeanne is satisfied that her father is safe and Mercier unlikely to make more trouble for anyone else.

“I must return to the castle,” Jeanne says, at breakfast the next day.

“What?” her father asks, shocked.

“I gave my word I would do so,” Jeanne says.

“But, surely,” he begins, and then trails off. Jeanne waits, but no further argument seems forthcoming.

“I will start there after breakfast,” Jeanne says.

Her father looks at her, but advances no further argument besides a doubtful, “Take Philippe. I suppose he will find his way back, readily enough.”

“Very well,” Jeanne says, and applies herself to her toast.

—-

Isabeau has lost track of time, of the rest of the castle, of the last time she’s eaten, of her own body, of anything except the rose on the table. It’s down to the last petal, and she’s half-tempted to rip it off herself and just get it over with. She would, if she thought it would work.

Distantly, she hears a door open. She thinks Georges, or maybe Eulalie, has been bringing her food, the past few days when she’s been too weak to leave the chair. She hasn’t eaten much of it, which has a pleasing quality of drama to it that Isabeau likes, even though it’s mostly because she simply doesn’t have an appetite.

“Isabeau,” someone says, distantly, and Isabeau starts to make the slow, bobbing journey back into her own body. Whoever it is sounds upset; she thinks she hears crying.

“Don’t cry,” Isabeau thinks she says. She hopes it isn’t one of the children, or worse, one of the adults. Isabeau stirs feebly, trying to make her eyes focus. She’s so tired, she just wants to go to sleep.

“What’s wrong?” And, no that can’t be right. Isabeau frowns a little, squeezing her eyes shut and then opening them again, because she thinks she sees Jeanne. “Isabeau.” Someone pushes her shoulder, hard, and Isabeau snaps briefly, wonderfully into focus.

“Jeanne?” she says. “What are you doing here?”

“I came back.” Jeanne is crying, and Isabeau feebly tries to wipe away her tears. Her hand mostly just flops uselessly, but hopefully the sentiment is appreciated. “I came back. How do I fix this? How do I make it stop?”

“Make it stop?”

“Georges says you’re _dying_! That that’s what the curse did, because I left. You said it would be fine!”

“It is fine,” Isabeau says, with prickly dignity. She is trying to make a gesture here, and die all nobly, and Jeanne has to show up and cry all over her and make her feel guilty.

“Why did you let me leave?” Jeanne’s face is very red, and her eyes and nose are streaming, and she looks absolutely furious, and Isabeau thinks it might be the nicest thing she’s ever seen, anyway.

“You had to, your father,” Isabeau tries to explain. She wants to explain everything, but she’s so, so tired. “It’s better like this,” she says slowly. “You’re free, everyone is free, once I’m gone.”

“No,” Jeanne says, and tries to shake her. It isn’t very effective. “They need you. You have to get better.” Jeanne gets up, is moving away, and Isabeau feels so much colder, somehow. She starts to close her eyes again, but Jeanne is back already, brandishing the rose. “Look, there’s still one petal left. And I’m back. I came back.”

Jeanne glares between Isabeau and the rose fiercely, as if she will bring both of them back to full bloom by will alone.

Isabeau laughs, or tries to. It comes out rusty, and horrible, and makes Jeanne start crying again. “Don’t cry,” Isabeau says again. “It’s alright, really.

“You can’t die,” Jeanne says again. “They need you.” She might say something else, but Isabeau is drifting again, floating away. “Isabeau, no!” She hears, very faintly. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me, please.” Isabeau stirs faintly, turning her head toward the sound of Jeanne’s voice, but her body is getting heavier and heavier, and she’s drifting out of it again.

—-

Jeanne pounds on Isabeau’s chest, but she doesn’t respond, doesn’t move at all. Jeanne is crying so hard she can barely see, and her hands are numb and cold where they’re tangled in Isabeau’s fur. “Don’t leave me,” she keeps saying, over and over, because she can’t think of anything else to say.

_Why does it feel like the sun has set in my chest?_ Jeanne wonders, distantly.

She was ready to face anything, coming back: scorn, rejection, anger, even rage. She was ready to be placid in the face of it, because she knows Isabeau, and knows that however Isabeau might storm and howl, she is kind and her heart is soft. She knows Isabeau will not turn her away from the castle, and Jeanne hoped that, over time, they would be friends again.

She feels like she’s being torn in half, with the suddenness of the shock and grief. It is shattering, unbearable, the horrible stillness of it. That Jeanne has to be in a world where Isabeau is unmoving, not breathing, all the life and animation and brightness of her gone out, she can’t stand it. She feels like a child again, helpless, like her world is being ripped out from under her and there’s nothing she can do.

Jeanne clutches the stem of the rose, bare now. The morning she left flashes across her memory. Isabeau seemed so calm, so certain everything would be fine. It made Jeanne certain, too, that everything would work out. She was afraid, afraid of what she would find at home, afraid of what would come after the last petal fell, but she also felt, somewhere deep in her heart, settled.

She can admit to herself, now that it’s too late to matter, that some of that calm was cowardice. It was easier, to leave with things still unspoken. To not take the chance of trying to break the curse, of confirming, definitely and finally, that Isabeau does not love her. It was easier, to not say any of it. Not how much Jeanne has loved her time in the castle, not how much she cares for Isabeau, not how happy she’s been. Not the complicated knot of it: Jeanne’s conviction both that she could remain here, happily, forever, and the knowledge that such a thing is impossible.

Her presence here serves a theoretical purpose, that of breaking the curse, and if she is not breaking the curse, then why is she here? Besides, for all the mortification and risk of speaking her feelings, and having them not returned, even more terrifying to contemplate was the curse actually breaking.

Jeanne does not know how to be loved in a way that is not transactional, contingent upon usefulness, a purpose yet to be served. If the curse is broken, what is Jeanne’s use, in the aftermath?

“I should have told you I love you,” Jeanne says, her face pressed into the awful stillness of Isabeau’s chest. “I should have told you, anyway,” she says, choking it out around tears. It hurts to say, burns coming out, as if she is speaking in sparks. It’s too late, and it doesn’t matter, but she says it anyway, because she can’t keep it locked up and silent any longer.

—-

Something sinks into Isabeau’s chest, burning, hot and searing like an ember being pressed into her skin. She jerks from it, body twisting around the pain.

Isabeau gasps, opening her eyes. Or, she thinks she opens her eyes, but she must not, because this is all wrong. The sky above her is rent open, the dawn running full bore through the night, trailing sparkbright whispers of red, gold, orange, black, cream, splashed across the blue.

It’s all so bright, she is burning with it, her limbs stinging, her eyes watering. She feels wild with it, feral, but also oddly helpless. She is thrashing against the sea again, the endlessness of it, soaking up all her fury and hurt and every twisting ache of her heart.

There has never been a bit of Isabeau that has ever been tame, and her bones break under her skin in their surge toward freedom.

She does not drop back into life like the lost-petal late-summer roses. No. She blooms like an erupting tidal wave of growth, barely sketched out and then so hard and deep and snapping sudden that you’re bowled over and drowning before you can say two words.

Isabeau’s hip aches as her body lands hard on the marble of the balcony, hands scrabbling through the explosion of rose petals and too much cloth and-

Isabeau stops. Her _hands_. She shoves the long tangle of dark hair out of her eyes, trying to get a closer look. She stares down at her hands, shaking slightly, in wonder. They look strange and unfamiliar, after so much time.

She gets to her feet slowly, body sore and aching and too light, and looks around. There, pressed back against the railing of the balcony with her hand over her mouth, is Jeanne. Her face is still blotchy and tear-stained, and she looks frightened. The expression is familiar to Isabeau, but she is unused to seeing it on Jeanne’s face. She doesn’t like it, and takes a step toward her automatically. She wants to fix it, whatever it is.

Jeanne shrinks back further against the railing, though, and Isabeau realizes, through the slow sludge of her returning senses, that Jeanne is afraid of _her_. A laugh bubbles in her throat, hysterical and senseless. Why is Jeanne afraid now, when she never was before? Isabeau can’t hurt her, now. She never could, truly, but now she looks just as harmless as she is. This realization is a relief, even if Jeanne still looks inexplicably afraid.

“Don’t you recognize me?” Isabeau asks.

—-

“Don’t you recognize me?”

And Jeanne knows, logically, that this must be Isabeau. That the curse has broken. That Isabeau is still alive. She can feel relief, distant and beating against her mind like rain, but she can’t seem to reach it.

She steps slowly toward Isabeau, as if she is approaching a wild beast. She moves more carefully than she ever did when Isabeau _was_ , by all appearances, a wild beast.

Isabeau’s voice is a little lighter, less rich, but still with the same deep huskiness that Jeanne is familiar with. It’s comforting, the familiarity. And when Jeanne steps a little closer, barely needing to look up at all, now, to meet Isabeau’s gaze, her eyes are the same. Grey and stormy, like the sea, and like coming home.

“You’re alive?” Jeanne whispers, through numb lips. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Isabeau says. She holds perfectly still, letting Jeanne move closer to her. Jeanne reaches out, hesitantly, laying a hand over Isabeau’s heart. Her palms still remember that awful stillness; she wants to drive the feeling out.

Isabeau’s heart beats under her palm, strong and steady, and Jeanne heaves a broken, shuddering sigh of relief. Her composure shatters, suddenly and entirely, and she’s wrapping her arms around Isabeau’s neck and crying, again, and pressing kisses to every part of her she can reach.

And then everyone is bursting out onto the balcony, a milling confusion of people, pressing into and around them, and Isabeau is laughing and running from person to person, embracing them all. It starts to sink in. They’re truly free, now, all of them.

—-

Jeanne slips away in the chaos, feeling a bit like an intruder and also needing a moment to herself. Her room is a mess; clearly the transition from wardrobe to human was not a neat one. Dominique is gone, Jeanne is fairly sure she was the tall thin one with eyes like Isabeau, and the wardrobe is merely wooden, now. All the drawers are open and clothes have spilled all across the floor, a strange profusion of styles and sizes that must be discards from past inhabitants of the castle.

Jeanne isn’t entirely certain where she left her own bag, she thinks it might be down in the entrance hall still. She abandoned it without thought, in a rush to get to Isabeau as quickly as possible.

Isabeau.

Jeanne clears the small chair in front of the vanity so she can collapse into it, propping her head on her chin in exhaustion. She still feels shaken, the whole experience so sudden and terrifying that she can’t seem to quite process it.

Lifting a petticoat out of the way so she can see the mirror to the vanity, Jeanne studies her own reflection. Her eyes are red from crying, and her face looks even harsher and sharper than usual. Jeanne sighs, letting the petticoat drop back into place.

A wave of exhaustion sweeps over her, now that she’s sitting still, and Jeanne doesn’t try to fight it. She just crawls into bed, curls up among the discarded clothes, and lets herself drift off to sleep.

—-

The children, especially, are excited and difficult to quiet.

In many ways, the scene that follows the breaking of the curse is the inverse of Isabeau’s earlier experience, of trying to calm everyone after the curse, but with devastation replaced with riotous joy. Isabeau has to admit she encourages the children's rambunctiousness, rather than curtailing it. It's nice, to see them wild and happy, and loved for it, by their parents.

The absence of Jeanne is a point immediately in her conciousness. She notices her slip away, and it preys on her mind, and yet. Perhaps it is nothing. Perhaps she is simply fatigued, or needs time to think.

Isabeau is starting to trust that Jeanne needing space, or Isabeau needing space, is not a threat to their established closeness, but long habit is still hard to break. And, a separation is peculiarly difficult to endure now, so soon after she feared such a breach was permanent.

Still, Isabeau tells herself, they will sort things, between them. The two of them will speak what has been unspoken, and Jeanne will be what she has been: an object of high gravity, steady, an island in the midst of the ocean. They will find a new equilibrium together.

“Walk with me,” Georges says, catching her by the elbow. Isabeau leans into the contact, half consciously. She has missed them all so much.

“You look troubled,” Georges begins, once they are a little away from the others. Isabeau sighs, letting it gust through the slightness of her new frame.

“Jeanne left so soon.” Isabeau half-turns her face when she says it, afraid of being laughed at.

“I think the change has overwhelmed her a little,” Georges says gently, “but that will pass.”

“You think it is only that?” Isabeau presses. Georges is not such a romantic as Albin, nor has Isabeau known him as long, but she trusts him with the longings of her heart in a way she trusts none other, save Jeanne. Georges came into the house as her maid, before he began living publicly as a man, and they retain an intimacy from that time that Isabeau cherishes.

“Yes,” Georges says. “Give her a little time, Isabeau. But she loves you, I truly believe that.” Indeed, Jeanne must, for the curse to be broken, but Isabeau finds, still, that she needs reassurance. “You did not see her when she heard of your illness,” Georges adds, with quiet certainty. “I am convinced of her devotion.”

Something settles, under Isabeau’s skin, and she sighs and leans more fully into Georges. She will not be entirely easy, until she speaks to Jeanne, but for now she lets herself be comforted. The others are safe, the curse broken, and now she is left with the task of reassembling her life.

—-

The castle is dark and quiet, when Jeanne wakes. It was early evening, she thinks, it’s difficult to tell this deep into winter, when the curse broke. She must not have slept through the whole night; perhaps it was earlier than she thought when she crawled into bed.

Jeanne climbs out of bed, padding barefoot to the door and opening it slightly. The halls are empty, everyone either in bed or elsewhere in the castle.

She is curious, both about the changes to the castle that breaking the curse must have brought and about what all the people who live here are going to do, now. Things are bound to change, in many ways. There is one place that Jeanne is most curious about, though, so she slips on some sturdy walking boots and takes a wrap and goes out to the garden.

There are rose petals everywhere. They exploded out from the balcony when Isabeau transformed, and tumbled down into the garden. The winter-bare rose bushes have bloomed again, roses of all colors and description, crowding together. Jeanne wonders if they will last, or if they will fade over the next few days, the enchantment over the garden dropping away, no longer needed.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” someone says, and Jeanne starts and turns around.

Isabeau is sitting on one of the delicate benches that circle the fountain in the middle of the garden. Jeanne must have walked right past her and not noticed.

“I did sleep,” Jeanne says. Isabeau stands, moving towards her, and Jeanne fights the urge to retreat.

Isabeau stops, a few feet away. “I don’t understand,” she says. Isabeau’s voice is always so expressive, and she sounds hurt, and lost, and it breaks Jeanne’s heart. “At first I thought it was just that you didn’t recognize me, or were merely startled, but it’s not that. You are. You’re afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Jeanne lies, but it’s thick and awkward on her tongue.

“What’s wrong with me?” Isabeau asks, her eyes flashing. She folds her arms over her stomach, all sharp elbows and jutting chin. “Well?” she demands angrily, when Jeanne doesn’t reply.

The anger is easier to meet with equanimity than the hurt, although not by much, and Jeanne forces herself to speak. “I thought you were dead,” she says, and her voice comes out quiet and small.

“I’m not dead.” Isabeau is moving towards her again, and Jeanne makes herself hold still. Isabeau charges right into her space and grabs Jeanne’s hand, pressing it over her heart. “I’m alive,” she says, voice still wavering between anger and hurt.

Jeanne closes her eyes, overwhelmed, but doesn’t pull away. “It was easier to say when I thought you were gone,” Jeanne says. Isabeau doesn’t respond. When Jeanne opens her eyes, Isabeau is frowning down at her.

“Easier to say or easier to mean?” Isabeau asks, finally, cold.

“What?” It is Jeanne’s turn for confusion.

“You’re disappointed.” It’s not a question. Isabeau presses closer, although Jeanne’s hand still on her chest keeps them apart. “You wish you hadn’t come back, is that it? That I’d died after all? Well too late for that, Jeanne, because-“

“Wait,” Jeanne breaks in mildly. “I don’t know what you-“

“-you’re stuck with me now! You can’t just break the curse and then run off-“

“I’m not going to run off,” Jeanne says, still in a tone she thinks is quite reasonable, given the Isabeau is essentially yelling at this point.

“-and expect that I’ll just let you leave again, and-“

“Isabeau!” Jeanne snaps, since clearly a reasonable tone isn’t getting her anywhere. “If you’d just _listen_.” Isabeau quiets, at that, but her eyes are still fiery and her jaw is set. “I simply meant,” Jeanne starts, but now that she has a chance to speak she doesn’t know what to say. Isabeau seems finished with interrupting, though, just glaring down into Jeanne’s face like she’s daring her to do something. “I don’t know what you want from me,” Jeanne says finally, frankly. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, now that the curse is broken.”

“Do?” Isabeau asks, wrinkling her delicate nose. All her features are so _tiny_ , perfectly formed miniatures, too small for the storm of expression crowding across them. She looks like a wildfire captured in a hand-mirror, too-bright and impossible to look away from at the same time. “You can do whatever you like, just as before.”

“But I’m in love with you?” Jeanne says, and it comes out like a question.

Isabeau blinks down at her, brow furrowing. “That’s what broke the spell, yes,” she says slowly.

“And you’re in love with me?”

Isabeau heaves an impatient sigh. “Yes, of course. We established this already!” Jeanne wants to take her hand back, feels silly having this whole conversation with it pressed over Isabeau’s heart, but she’s worried pulling back will communicate something she doesn’t intend to say.

“I wasn’t certain,” Jeanne says.

“You weren’t- Well you shouldn’t have _said_ it if you weren’t certain!” And Isabeau is jerking away from her now, whirling and turning to pace the length of the garden.

“I wasn’t certain that you were in love with me,” Jeanne clarifies.

“Oh.” Isabeau stops pacing, looking at her. “Well. I am. As I said, previously,” she says stiffly.

“You don’t sound very happy about it,” Jeanne points out, throat tight.

“How am I supposed to be happy about it when you’re being impossible!” Isabeau explodes. “Darting away from me like I’m about to eat your liver, and coming out to the garden in the middle of the night, probably to flee again, and-“ Jeanne sighs, and Isabeau unexpectedly interrupts her own tirade, frowning down at the ground. “If you’re in love with me why aren’t you happy?” she asks, voice small. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Wrong with _you_?” Jeanne sighs. She supposes she’s just going to have to come out and say it. “Isabeau, you’re beautiful, and rich, and not cursed now, and you have a castle, and servants. There’s nothing wrong with _you_.”

“It’s half your castle,” Isabeau says mulishly. Jeanne laughs, in spite of herself, and buries her head in her hands. “Do you know how many people have been here, in twelve years?”

“No.”

“Well I don’t either. Georges probably does. But it’s a lot.” Jeanne looks up at Isabeau, not sure where she’s going with this. Isabeau makes an impatient hand gesture. “Jeanne, there was a whole curse about how difficult to get along with I am. And lots of people confirmed it, all right? Lots of them. So if you have some stupid idea about you being the difficult to love one, here...” Isabeau trails off.

Jeanne feels, abruptly, like an idiot. “This is a silly argument,” she says.

“I’ve been saying!” Isabeau flings up her hands. Jeanne smiles a little.

The curse feels clearer in hindsight, like everything should be solved now, but Jeanne realizes they’re both nervous because they don’t know where to go from here. Realizing she’s in love with Isabeau, and that Isabeau loves her back is just, choosing to be together. To do things together. And, just like before, some things about it will be easy, and some will be hard, but it will be worth it, because they’re happier together.

“I think you’re very loveable,” Jeanne says, and moves toward Isabeau. Isabeau holds still, not pulling back but letting Jeanne be the one to approach. It’s terrifying, but Jeanne takes a deep breath and does it anyway. “I love you,” she says, letting her hands come to rest on Isabeau’s shoulder and waist.

“I love you, too,” Isabeau says, smiling a little. Jeanne tucks her head into Isabeau’s shoulder.

It’s still dark outside, the new moon lightless, and Isabeau extinguishes the torches in the garden so they can watch the stars over the sea together, the edge of dawn. A peace settles over them both, and in the dim, unseeing light their hands reach for each other, simultaneous.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, mary oliver wild geese dot poem


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